A Perfect Day to Elope
by Fuschia Nicole
Summary: Incomplete. 2nd Place FawkesAshes Wedding Challenge: A tale of stolen rings, involuntary cupcake queens, inspiring pop hits, houseelves, allergies, inlaws, pink pompoms, disgruntled guests, and the ONE BIG LIE that ties them all together.HGDM
1. CHAPTER ONE

_Disclaimer:_ I do not own the Harry Potter characters or universe, though I do own Tamryn- and kind of the People Against Elven Niceness, Really Awful Women, and the Coalition Against Change, though other people can use them if they really wanted to.

_A/N:_ This was written for the wedding challenge at Fawkes' Ashes, but it doesn't appear it'll be finished in time to enter it. Oh well. Maybe if I write really fast. I really tried to avoid a Hermione/Draco story. In fact, the first thing I wrote was a Ron/Hermione story. And just before that was a Remus/Sirius story, but this plot kept picking at me, so here it is.

* * *

"You say it's your birthday

Well it's my birthday too - yeah

You say it's your birthday

We're gonna have a good time

I'm glad it's your birthday

Happy birthday to you." - 'Birthday' The Beatles

A Perfect Day to Elope

Or…

How Hermione Married Draco Three Times

CHAPTER ONE

**In which Hermione gets a year closer to dying and Draco is nervous...**

_**September 19, 2003**_

The dust on the windowsill was gathering sunlight and a gentle summer breeze was blowing warm air through a pair of homey-looking curtains. The leaves on the trees were at that shining point between summer and fall where they've turned to the fiery shades of autumn, but do not yet wish to fall. Yes, it was a perfect day to elope.

Made even more so by the fact that it was her, Hermione Granger's, birthday- though she had yet to know that it was also to be her wedding day.

She'd gotten the usual: a novel from Harry, a nice sparkly bracelet from Ron, chocolates from the Weasley twins (she hadn't touched those), a fuzzy brown sweater from Mrs. Weasley and Ginny, a packet of biscuits from Hagrid (she hadn't touched those either), a green T-shirt emblazoned with the word "Virgo" across the chest from Luna Lovegood, and a DVD player from her parents (along with a couple of DVDs). She hadn't expected anything more, really. Turning twenty-three wasn't like turning eighteen, or even twenty-five for that matter. It was just another year to say proudly- "Nope, haven't died yet." Not that Hermione expected to die any time soon- in fact she planned on living a long fruitful life, though perhaps she'd do something fruitful after she'd finished her breakfast.

"Well," she said to her toaster, which was humming happily on her kitchen counter, "it's not as though I could really honestly expect him to remember, really. I mean it's not as though he remembered our anniversary— but no, that's not fair. He did remember that, he was just working is all." Her toaster reflection forced a smile- but even stretched on stainless steel she looked silly. She turned around so she could lean back on her elbows. "He did get me a nice Halloween present." She was now talking to her telephone (which she kept for calling her parents, as they'd never quite figured out owl post), "And that nightie he got me for Valentine's day was very expensive looking, though I think he was quite keen to see me out of it," she snorted, "once he'd seen me in it.

"And he got me a lovely Christmas present. Who would have thought he could be so s—"

"Now really Granger, are you going to talk to your kitchen appliances all day, or are you going to let a bloke give you your birthday present?"

The man crawling out of Hermione's fireplace was remarkable only for the fact that he was dangerously attractive, which was odd as he was neither tall, dark, nor astonishingly handsome. He was only a bit taller than average, which was still taller than Hermione, his skin was pale-on-the-verge-of-sickly, and his pointed face was arranged around a pair of unremarkable cold gray eyes. The only notable thing about him was his hair, which was silvery white-blonde; sometimes the color of a peeled banana, sometimes the illusive silvery tones of moon glow (which unfortunately cannot be bottled and so is coveted by those lucky enough to be born with the hair of an angel). Yet he was dangerously attractive, if only for the fact that he possessed the air of someone who was used to getting what they want. He was cunning, and so consequently suave, charming, and irresistibly smooth.

"Well?" He stood, brushing soot off his pants.

"Well what?" She was still watching him from beside the toaster.

"Are you going to let me give you your present?" He leaned into the counter next to her, smirking at her confusion.

"Why didn't you just send it over- or did your owl run away again?" she snorted.

"Owls don't run, Granger, they fly. And no, Sineese hasn't _flown _away. She's actually sleeping... or eating. I swear that bird thinks she's a dog," he grinned mutinously.

"Alright." She dove her hands into his pockets. "I'd like my present then." She could tell what he was doing and by no means whatsoever was she going to let him weasel his way out of giving her a birthday present.

"You silly tart!" he sneered, leaning so close that she could feel his breath on her forehead. "It's not in my pockets-" he whispered, his breath tickling her ear, "it's in my pants…"

She immediately drew her hands out of his pants and jumped back, as though he'd turned to fire. _Or ice_, she thought, _since he's always on fire_.

"Don't look at me like that, I'm not that big of a jerk," he laughed. "It was a _joke_".

"Okay then," she snapped, "where is it Argh, _really_! Where is it _really_? And call me Hermione for Merlin's sake!"

"Alright, but I'm not going to call you Hermione. Granger is a—" he sneered, as though about to utter a really foul word, "pet name."

"Fine, well I have more important things to do, anyway" she sniffed, turning to fiddle with the toaster.

"Well then-" he started, but she'd turned away from the toaster and pierced him with a McGonagall-worthy glare before he could escape. She was surprised to see he looked almost… nervous!

"Yes right, Granger— fine her-my-oh-nee, yes right Hermione, we've been…" but what they'd been Hermione never found out because at that moment there was a loud pop and the head of a very disgruntled young woman with her auburn hair done up in a messy ponytail appeared in Hermione's fireplace.

"HER-MIIIII-NEEEEEEE!" she shouted, not bothering to notice that Hermione was already kneeling by the flames.

"Yes, Tamryn, what? This is my day off!" Hermione snapped. The head of the woman called Tamryn turned her eyes on Hermione. "It's bad 'Mione! We've got a Malfoy," she sobbed. "And- oh, it'd appear that you've got one too." Tamryn spotted Draco, who was glaring daggers into the fireplace.

"Oh bloody hell Tammy! Why today?" Hermione mentally slapped herself, ignoring Tamryn's last comment. "I'll be there right away," she sighed, tucking a few flyaway hairs behind her ears.

"You better be!" Tammy snapped, and then with another resounding crack Tammy's head was gone and Hermione was grabbing a little purple pot off the top of the refrigerator. She threw a handful of floo powder onto the fire and it roared emerald green.

"Honey, I'm really, really sorry. How 'bout I'll meet you for dinner at erm… ooh! We'll stop by Ginny's and pick up some sandwiches and eat them in the park." She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. "Okay? And you can give me my present then, okay? Okay…" She jumped up to kiss him on the cheek and then ran into the fire, shouting "Diagon Alley!" In one smooth motion she was gone.

* * *

A few soot-filled moments later she tumbled into Flourish and Blotts. 

"Morning Her-"

"No, thanks. Urgent business" she screamed as she ran at full speed out into the morning crowds of Diagon Alley. She pushed her way inside a little building that was indistinguishable except for the abnormally small mannequins in the window, one of them sporting petite parachute pants, another swathed in a miniscule top hat and tails.

"Ah, the cavalry's arrived," a cold voice drawled as she burst into the store, gasping for breath.

"Morning Lucius," she panted, smoothing her shirt and heading behind the cashier's desk.

"Hermione he… and he said… and…"

"Calm down Tammy! It's not like he's still got his wand!" she snapped, and Tamryn ran off into a back room, where she could be heard noisily moving a box from one wall to the other.

"Now…" Hermione turned to Lucius, who was sneering at the happy house elves beaming from the SPEW posters that covered the walls, "for what do we owe the pleasure of your company?"

"Mutual, I'm sure," he sneered, then stiffened and became very business-like. "Now this, you call it a business?" Mr. Malfoy drawled, all too silkily for the bite behind his words.

"Yes, we do make a profit," Hermione replied, fingering the cold handle of the top-desk drawer.

"Well then, this business is under the ownership of one, or rather _two_, Misters Fred and George Weasley?"

"Yes, for the moment, Fred and George gave the shop to me as a… present."

"Really?" he sneered, dragging his hand across the countertop as though expecting to lift a cloud of dust. "And they leave all financial matters to you?"

"That's right," she had now wrapped her fingertips around the steely handle.

"And so you are fully aware that your… _business_, is failing miserably," he drawled icily, letting a cold smirk play on his lips.

"I… well… uh, wait… who sent you?" she glared at him, letting her grip on the top-drawer handle tighten.

"Now really Ms. Gr—"

"Who the bloody hell sent you. Was it PAEN? RAW? Those morons over at the CAC? If I've told them once, I've told them twice, I have every right to sell clothes to free house-elves who can afford it. If the People Against Elven Niceness or the Coalition Against Change can't handle that, it's their own ruddy problem, but I am NOT doing ANYTHING illegal here."

The silence following Hermione's rant was broken only by a solitary "whoop!" from the back room.

"Well then, if you're doing nothing wrong you wouldn't mind if I 'poked around' a bit," he sneered defiantly.

"Actually, Malfoy…" In one smooth motion she'd flipped open the top-desk drawer and was waving a slip of paper in front of his nose. "I have every right to kick you out of this store, as it is officially my property, with legalities to Fred and George Weasley, as of two weeks ago," she pointed at the certificate in her hand.

Lucius eyed it suspiciously and then with a swish of his cloak glided coolly out of the store, muttering something about muggles and hippies.

"Yeah 'Mione!" Tamryn burst from the back room, waving miniscule pink pom-poms that had come from their Halloween collection.

"Hermione, Hermione, she's our man!

If she can't do it, no one can!

Hermione, Hermione, she's our girl,

Her hair's got more than one curl!" Tammy ended her cheer with a dramatic flourish of the ribbon-filled pom-poms and leapt into the air, pumping her arms furiously.

"Wow Tammy, did you make that up all by yourself?" Hermione teased, placing a hand on her chest in mock surprise.

"Yep," Tammy nodded furiously and bent low to the ground in a bow worthy of a house-elf.

"And to think I wanted to hire competentworkers." Hermione rolled her eyes and turned back to the front door.


	2. CHAPTER TWO

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Harry Potter characters or any of the places they inhabit, or any part of the Harry Potter universe, for that matter- though I do own Kyle (and if I could buy Draco I would)

Authors' Note: Ah! Another day another chapter. I wrote most of this during math class **smiles evilly**, but that doesn't make it bad. I'm also listening to the Spice Girls now, so I wouldn't be shocked if this ended up rather smutty. : - )

Featured in this chapter: A clumsy fry-cook, a disgruntled Weasley (of the younger female variety), a peek into the past/future of Ron, a yummy salad, and a _proposal_

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**"Before I met my husband, I'd never fallen in love, though I'd stepped in it a few times." – ****Rita Rudner**

CHAPTER TWO

**In which Ginny throws a hissy-fit and Draco hates tomatoes...**

**_September 19, 2003_**

"Now really Kyle, if I've told you once I've told you a thousand times, YOU CAN'T LEAVE THE GRILL ON! IT'S DANGEROUS! WE COULD ALL DIE!" Ginny Weasley was not in a good mood, made even worse by the white-blonde man who had chosen that exact moment to enter her innocent little deli.

Draco Malfoy was followed by Hermione, who was holding his hand as she made her way to the back of the restaurant and, ugh, towards Ginny.

Ginny briefly registered that Hermione was wearing the sweater she'd made her, before sinking into her chair like she always did when she saw Hermione's hand entwined in _his_. Ginny didn't like seeing Hermione much anyway- it made her think of Ron, which made her think of Ron and Hermione, which always made Ron sad, and so thus made Ginny herself a bit edgy.

For some reason they were smiling. Well, _he_ wasn't smiling, he really never did, honestly; but she was smiling, she was smiling and dragging him towards the blinking sign that read "Order Here".

"Hey Gin!" Hermione waved her free hand.

"'Lo 'Mione," Ginny forced a smile and pulled herself up on the bar stool she had positioned herself on beneath the menu that kept shouted recommendations at the customers that were waiting for their orders to be filled.

"You're doing well." Hermione nodded at the packed tables.

"We do alright, how's the store?"

"It's… good," she lied.

Draco snorted.

"That's nice," Ginny sighed, "So what'll it be?" she balanced her Calcul-o-matic Quick Quill on its tip and it began vibrating excitedly.

"Oh, I don't know…("Try the tater tots!" the menu shouted) what do you want Draco?" Ginny flinched involuntarily, ew, she was calling _him_ by his first name.

"I don't like sandwiches but… er…" He let his eyes rove over the menu, "How's the beef?"

"Divine! Like the nectar of the gods!" the menu shouted.

"She wouldn't be a very good business woman if she said no, now would she?" Hermione poked _him _playfully between his shoulder blades.

"Fine then, I'll have the beef, no tomato, and one espresso, no foam," _he _drawled, leaning back so he could see into the kitchen, which- Ginny was pleased to see- was spotless.

"And you 'Mione?" Ginny turned to Hermione, who was eyeballing the menu.

"How about a salad? Yes, I'll have the Mediterranean salad, light on the dressing with extra noodles," she announced, talking more to the menu than to Ginny.

"And to drink?"

"Nothing, I'll have some of his coffee," Hermione replied, entwining her thin fingers tighter into _his_. Ginny waited until their backs were turned to roll her eyes-

"Hey Kyle! One vampire special, no blood, a midnight mass, sans moon glow, and an East End salad, light on the slime, extra crunch," she shouted to the kitchen, where she could hear the grill simmering again.

"Restaurant code." She smirked at the confused look on _his_ face.

"So, Gin, how's the family?"

"They're okay. Fred and George just opened another store- but of course you'd know they're successful."

"Yeah."

"Mom is only too pleased with 'em now, though- but you know what she was like when they dropped out."

"Yep."

"Ron's doing fine, he's got that job with the canons now."

"I heard, how's he like it there?"

"He likes it alright. But of course, he'd rather be playing."

"Of course."

"But he makes a good manager anyway. Being so stingy and all."

"Yeah, he would." Hermione laughed.

"He misses school, I think- now with Harry so far away, and you…" Her eyes flicked automatically to Hermione's hand, which was still intertwined in _his_. "He misses… things, I think,".

"Don't we all miss… things," _he _interrupted, sarcasm dripping from his pale lips.

"Oh shut up, we all know you've never missed anything you heartless git," Hermione teased, it all made Ginny feel a bit, ill…

"Oh, but what a sexy git," he replied, and Ginny ran into the kitchen, she didn't think she could maintain her well practiced cool if they started snogging.

"Kyle!" she whined, "are those sandwiches nearly done, the dynamic duo is being especially dynamic."

"That bad, huh?" Kyle was a lanky man with a boyish face and curly blonde hair that did nothing to take away from the boyish look.

"Yes, ohmygod, you'd think after practically abandoning my BROTHER at the altar she'd be, I don't know, more DISCREET about dating someone else, and I mean a MALFOY, honestly."

"She didn't _really_ leave him at the altar though…"

"Well, no, do you think I'd be even ATTEMPTING to be civil if she HAD?"

"No, of course not."

"No, but still, don't you think that when you're ENGAGED to someone you should maybe, I don't know, TELL THEM you're not so keen on them anymore… don't go run away with their rival. I mean GOD, that TART. No, no, that's not fair of me, I know. But really Kyle, don't you think, I mean…"

"You've been spending too much time with Harry Potter, you're talking all… capslocky."

"Who cares, and is capslocky even a word?"

"If it's not it should be, don't look at me like that, I get it… oh, sandwiches are done…"

"Right…" Ginny took the brown paper bag from Kyle and trudged back into the deli, where Hermione and _him_ were leaning against the counter, far closer than Ginny would've liked them to be.

She thrust the bag between them. "Bon Appetit!" She smiled in what she hoped was a friendly way, but really turned into a grimace.

"That'll be, twelve sickles and a knut." She watched as _he _counted out the change and then lead Hermione out of the store with his hand on the small of her back.

* * *

"Agh! I ask for no tomato and they _still_ give me tomato…you know, it looks like they gave me _extra _tomato." Draco stared in disgust at his sandwich, which was, in fact, dripping with suspiciously tomato-looking juices. 

They had made their way through the busy streets of Diagon Alley into a nearly-deserted park that was filled with wilting gardens and a weak set of weather worn instruments that were attempting to play as a quartet. Hermione had settled herself on a warped wooden bench and Draco had reluctantly settled himself beside her- looking longingly over at a little café that skirted the drying green lawn.

"Here." She offered, taking the sandwich and scooping the tomatoes off the top, "I'll take these," she dropped them onto her salad, "and you will give me your espresso."

"No way, and here I thought you were being _nice_" he hooted, "You can have my espresso…" He waved the Styrofoam cup under her nose "…if I can have your salad,".

"Mmm… no." She shook her head.

"You can have this nasty disgusting sandwich." He made a grab for her salad but she pulled it back.

"Nope." She laughed.

"Oh come on Granger, a lovely, appetizing, highly inedible sandwich and a cup of superb coffee for your mealy salad." He took a sip from the cup, "mmm…" He coughed "Delightful."

"No."

"But I have-"

"No."

"But you-"

"No."

"But I'm just so charming!" He pouted, bringing his face much too close to hers than could possibly be allowed in public parks- however empty they may be.

"Nope." She laughed, lifting her fork and dramatically downing a mouthful of salad and noodles. "Yum…"

"That was highly insensitive."

"Was it now?" she took another large scoop of her Mediterranean salad.

"Yes, actually, and now, if you don't mind…" She made to block her salad, but rather than making another swipe at it he pressed his lips to hers.

"Mmm… good salad…" he murmured against her lips, his tongue darting out and tasting the tangy dressing mixed with her own intoxicating flavor.

"Fine, seeing as you've given such a _convincing _argument." She pulled away and with a wave of her wand produced a second fork in the air above his shoulder. "We'll share."

"If you insist." He sighed dramatically and accepted the fork.

All and all the proposal was less romantic than maybe she, or even he, would have liked it.

They were just finishing the salad in a manner that involved a lot of arm bending and finger intertwining.

"That _is _a good salad" she whispered, picking the last bit of lettuce from the bottom of the bowl and bringing it close to his lips, then raising her eyebrows and popping it into her own mouth. He snaked one irresistibly smooth arm around her neck and pulled her to him; so close they could be snogging; close enough so that she could feel his breath on her face and smell that intoxicatingly overwhelming balm that she associated with spontaneous midnight bonfires by the ocean, symphony orchestra halls, deserted Hogwarts classrooms, and _him_.

"Tease…" he murmured against her lips, letting his hands wrap around her thick brown hair as she pulled him into a deeper kiss.

"Hell Draco, you taste good," she whispered as he nibbled on her bottom lip, sending another wave of fresh sensations up and down her spine.

"Marry me…" he murmured against her lips.

"What was that?" she placed her hands on his forearms as he drew away ever so slightly and let his hands fall to her shoulders.

"Marry me?" he was looking deep into her eyes, deep brown as they were and wide with surprise.

"Really?" she whispered, her voice was hoarse and she didn't think it'd hold out much longer.

"Yes really you dunce." He laughed nervously, the moment having passed.

"Well, I… er… I… that's… wow! I mean…I don't know what to say to that…" she stammered, tangling and untangling her fingers with his, she knew she ought to say yes but the words just wouldn't form on her lips.

"Say yes then…" he whispered, his lips inches away from a kiss, if only she'd say yes…

"I… well then… of-" but Hermione did not finish her incoherent sentence because at that moment there was a loud, echoing pop, and she screamed and fell backwards off the bench.

He was up quicker than lightning, his wand at ready-

"Oh look! I look so stupid! Put down your wand you sexy beast!"

"Oh bloody hell, it is us isn't it? Dammit Draco! Do you have _any idea_ how many laws we're breaking right now?"

Mwa ha ha ha ha…

How's that for a cliffie?

* * *

**NEXT CHAPTER**: A heinously heinous wedding dress, some rings, and an answer… mwa ha ha ha! 


	3. CHAPTER THREE

Disclaimer: I don't own it, nope not me

* * *

**"****My mother says I didn't open my eyes for eight days after I was born, but when I did, the first thing I saw was an engagement ring. I was hooked.****"****-**

**Elizabeth Taylor**

CHAPTER THREE

**In which Hermione meets Hermione and Draco gets an answer...**

**_September 19, 2003_**

The mask of dilapidated peace that the park had obtained after years of emptiness and half-hearted maintenance seemed to have fallen away like so many gossamer curtains- replaced by an irritable cacophony of shouting that was punctuated by showers of sudden, sporadic green sparks.

The source of most of the disturbance- a man with slick white-blonde hair and dressed in an olive green suit and a woman with sleek brown hair pulled into a gigantic up-do on top of her head and swathed in a gigantic white gown that made her look the queen of the cupcakes- was located beside a rotting bench in the center of the park.

"Could we go, please?" The woman looked around suspiciously, nervously wringing her hands.

"No, you're not remembering it properly, first I—"

"Will you SHUT UP!" Draco roared, a sudden spatter of angry green sparks shooting from the end of his wand and sending long shadows across the walk.

"Yes, exactly like that and then- "

"Please, let's go!" The woman grabbed his hand and started to back away.

"No, you're not remembering it properly! Lot's of things happened and then- "

"Well I WOULDN'T remember it properly, would I? I was kind of UNCONCIOUS!"

"Well yeah, but I- "

"I said SHUT the BLOODY HELL UP!" Draco shouted again, another rain of green lightning shooting across the walk.

"Good, god, I do remember that. That must mean…" her eyes flicked automatically down to Hermione, who had propped herself up on her elbows and was rising shakily onto her feet.

"Ow…" she groaned and then leaned haphazardly against Draco's shoulder- digging in her own robes for her wand.

"Oh, right, now I remember…" the man tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear and then stared thoughtfully at Draco- who was becoming very agitated as he swung his wand back and forth between the woman and her partner.

"Yes, that seems about right and then- DUCK!" the man dove to the side, pushing his collaborator into a patch of dilapidated bushes and taking Draco's stunning spell in the chest before falling backwards in a heap of olive green silk.

"_Silencio!_" the woman snarled, snatching away Draco and Hermione's voices in a whirl of white light before they had even pointed their wands at her.

"_Enervate_" she flicked her wand casually at the man on the ground, ignoring Draco as he advanced on her, mouthing silent curses. The man rose, disdainfully brushing dirt off of his pants, his lip curling fiercely. "_Expelliarmus_" She rolled her eyes as Draco's wand went flying behind him and he swore silently.

"Sit" she commanded, they did not. She sighed deeply and sat down herself, brushing a bit of dirt off of her lacy skirt and picking a twig from her hair, "alright then, if you will not, I will, and you will attempt to tell me what's going on; and," she added tiredly, "without your voices."

Neither of them made a move to sit, so she continued.

"Er…" she began, absent-mindedly picking at a bit of sparkly lace on her skirt, "Well, er… you see… well." She stood, regaining her composure. She held out a hand to Hermione, "My name is Hermione Jane Granger, and when I wasten-years-old I had a crush on a little boy named Todd Hanson. I wrote him a valentine but he vehemently did not return my feelings."Hermione's face went through a series of expressions- mostly variations on confused, then a look of understanding dawned on her face and she took the woman called Hermione's hand.

"_Finite Incantato_" She smiled weakly, then gestured for Hermione and Draco to sit. Hermione did, and Draco followed her reluctantly, protectively placing a hand on her knee.

"Not a _word_ from you,"'Hermione' continued, pointing her wand at Draco as he quickly shut his mouth, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Now honestly, what are you going to do without your wand? I could be a satanic, Hitler-worshipping, ex-death eater and the most you could do isglare atme." Draco tensed, but the woman sitting beside him laughed.

"So you think this is funny?" Draco sneered, his eyes meeting hers for a moment, which made her laugh even harder.

"And you call yourself smart!" She snorted, which served only to make her laugh harder.

"Oh, so I suppose you've got any clue what's going on here?" he sneered, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms irritably.

At this, both Hermiones roared with laughter.

"Really now, ladies." Suit-man settled himself between Hermione and Draco, who was sitting perfectly still, as though if he moved he was likely to break something- or someone. "Now." He sighed dramatically, donning an air of perfect seriousness."My name is Draco Lucifer Malfoy, and, er…" he leaned forward and whispered something in Draco's ear. Apparently the something was pretty shocking, because he immediately jumped up and stepped back from the bench.

"Who are you people!" he bellowed, reaching in his pants pocket for a wand that wasn't there- "Oh bloody hell," he rolled his eyes skywards, as if to ask "why me?"

"They're us!" Hermione giggled. "...and even if they aren't it's not like we could do anything to stop them killing us in horrible, wicked ways."

"Besides..." What we might loosely term Draco-in-a-suit leaned forward from his seat on the crumbling bench. "Do you know anyone else who looks this good with this much hair gel?"

Draco-in-jeans seemed to ponder this for a moment before repressing a smile and sitting down on the little wall behind him. "Alright then, let's say I accept that you're 'Us-of-the-future', or something. Why are you here?"

"It's not like they, we, you and I…" Hermione-in-a-T-shirt thought for a moment "they could tell us, it'd be completely and totally illegal, not like I don't think they're being here in the first place is legal in any way," she added, smirking indignantly

Hermione-in-a-wedding dress snickered. "You've got us there. But now, there's really no point in us staying here, so we might as well go- but here..." she pulled a golden ring off of her finger and then an identical one off of Draco-in-a-suit's. "You'll need these."

Hermione-in-a-T-shirt took the rings and held them an inch away from her eyelashes, they seemed to be covered in runes and numbers that were spinning too quickly to see at first glance, she gasped... "Are these...?"

"Yes," Hermione-in-a-wedding-dress replied stonily. "You'll need them in a bit, I expect."

"Alright." Hermione-in-a-T-shirt considered the rings for a moment, then placed them in her pants pocket and turned back to her counterpart, who was quickly dragging Draco-in-a-suit away, he didn't seem able to move.

"No! I know there's something else I have to say!" He moaned, tugging at her iron grip.

"Any warnings?" Draco-in-jeans asked hopefully, which made Draco-in-a-suit wrench his hand free of Hermione-in-a-wedding-dress's and grab Draco-in-jeans by the shoulders.

"Listen to me now," he began, "and you remember this, okay? Okay, one.." He took a deep breath and then continued rambling. "One, when you go into Flourish and Blott's, stay away from the romance novels. You won't, of course, but you've been warned!

"Two, when you see Pansy Parkinson, Roger Davies, or Cho Chang, _run the other way_, you got that? _RUN_.

"Three, tell Harry Potter _last_, you got that, _last_.

"Four..." He paused, searching his gibbering mind for number four. "Oh! Four, edible panties are a bad idea, you got that, bad! Bad bad bad idea!"

Draco-in-jeans made a face.

"Five." He released Draco's shoulders and turned to Hermione. "And this one's for you, Madame Malkin's ought to be the second place on your list after a stationary store, and house-elves do not make good cooks, especially at weddings, okay?" Hermione nodded as though she understood.

"And take good care of each other, okay? Oh! And you..." Hermione-in-a-wedding-dress pointed at her past counterpart. "Give him ten pounds when he goes out for wine, okay? Five will not, under any circumstances, be enough. _Everything is going to be fine." _she smiled reassuringly and sped off into the darkness, Draco-in-a-suit following closely in her wake.

"So…" Draco drawled once their footsteps had died away, leaving a ringing silence in the now-empty park.

"So what?" Hermione turned to him, absent-mindedly picking at a spot on her elbow where she'd hit the walk.

"So, will you marry me?" he asked, searching her eyes for an answer.

"Of course!" she laughed. "How could I say no after we'd seen _that_?" She leaned forward so he could meet her in an engagement kiss- though perhaps the success of the proposal should have been a sign for things to come…


	4. CHAPTER FOUR

Disclaimer: Okay- firstly, if I was J.K. Rowling and I owned ANY of these characters (besides Kyle, Tamryn, Brini, Maxx, or Delilah) I would hope that I would be working on the sixth book right now, rather than taunting all of you with Draco/Hermione romance fics. (If I could buy Draco I most certainly would, or if I could just rent him for an evening, ha!)

* * *

**"When love beckons to you follow him,**

**Though his ways are hard and steep.**

**And when his wings enfold you yield to him,**

**Though the sword hidden among his pinions**

**May wound you.**

**And when he speaks to you believe in him,**

**Though his voice may shatter your dreams**

**As the north wind lays waste the garden.**

**For even as love crowns you**

**so shall he crucify you.**

**Even as he is for your growth**

**So is he for your pruning."** –The Prophet Gibran Khalil Gibran

CHAPTER FOUR

**In which a door runs into Hermione and Draco makes indecent comments about quidditch...**

_**September 20, 2003**_

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic, please state your name and business..."

The interior of the dilapidated telephone booth was more than a little packed as Hermione laid the broken telephone gingerly back onto its cradle and maneuvered to find herself pressed against a cracked glass window.

"Draco Malfoy," Draco began, his knee was pressed into the small of Hermione's back and he was struggling to keep his balance on one foot. He wondered aloud how Hermione, Luna, Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Neville had all fit inside in their fifth year.

"Visitor to the Ministry, please state your name and business," the cool female voice repeated.

"Alright, alright, keep your cool woman!" Draco spat at the telephone receiver, brushing a frustratingly rebellious strand of white-blonde hair from his forehead. "Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger, our business is our- ."

"We're here to get married," Hermione interrupted.

"Thank you," the disembodied voice continued, "visitor, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes." There was a click, a metallic rattling, and then two rectangular silver badges slid from the change shoot. Draco caught them smoothly in one hand and handed one to Hermione, who attached it promptly to the front of her robes. "Hermione Granger, Eloping" read the badge as it sparkled faintly in the dusty dawn sunlight. Draco looked at his appraisingly for a second before attaching it to his own chest.

Hermione was once again surprised to see he looked nervous... _twice in two days_ she thought to herself, absent-mindedly fingering her own badge. "Visitor to the ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the atrium." The floor shook and the booth began to sink slowly into the pavement, metallic walls were rising up by their feet and then flying out over their heads into the gathering darkness. Hermione glimpsed a patch of graffiti reading "Yon Honder was here" in sloppy scrawl before the shaking compartment was filled with golden light that rolled over their feet and then up over their heads as the doors slid open like elevator grates onto a huge, sparkling atrium filled with the few morning workers who were running sleepily through the many dark-wood doors or tumbling reluctantly out of the magnificent silver fireplaces inlaid into the highly-polished walls.

Hermione stepped resolutely out into the hall and took off towards the visitors' desk, her sneakers squeaking slightly on the hardwood floor. Draco followed warily, jumping slightly every time another morning- dusted wizard fell out of a nearby fireplace. She paused at the fountain of magical brethren, snorting derisively at the smiling little house-elf and (Draco could have sworn) angrily kicking the little brass plaque before pounding off again down the hall, her legs moving like determined machinery as people ducked shyly out of her way.

"Hi, visiting?" a woman with a plastic smile and nails like crimson claws grinned through a caffeinated haze as Hermione approached. She didn't wait for an answer, "Oh! Getting hitched? You know my friend Georgia got married last May, or was it June? Yes, July. Anyway, she got married to this real bugger, you know the type, and now she's married to this prince named To—"

Draco cleared his throat loudly and she broke off, "Oh, right." The woman (a large badge on her peacock blue robes read 'Erica') giggled nervously and produced a long golden wand from her pocket. She stepped out from behind the desk and wove it half-heartedly over Hermione and then Draco, every once in a while saying things like "I'd like to get married someday…" or "My cousin Mary Anne..."

"Well, you're clear there," she finished cheerfully, swinging around back behind the desk and producing a golden instrument that looked a bit like a dangerously uneven scale. "If you'd just put your wand there." She beamed as Draco laid his wand on the golden dish she'd indicated. There was a long moment when the scale vibrated and then a short white receipt slid from the slit at the bottom and Erica ripped it off.

"Eleven-and-a-half inches, dragon's heart string core, yew, been in use ten years, is that right?" she asked, Draco nodded and she deposited the receipt on a pile of similar white paper before giving him back his wand. "Next." She beckoned Hermione forward and gestured to the golden scale.

Once again the instrument whirred before a short white strip of paper rolled from the inner sanctums of whatever went on inside that scale.

"Nine inches, hippogriff feather core, been in use ten years," Erica read. "Yes," Hermione confirmed, taking her wand and then leading Draco away from the desk.

"What is wrong with you?" Hermione exclaimed after he had once again swung his glare over the lobby. They stepped over the threshold and into the elevator, a few pink memos fluttering around the ceiling.

"Nothing..." he croaked, leaning lower into his knees.

"Don't lie to me," Hermione snapped, leaning into his shoulder, "something wrong and I'll be damned if I don't find out."

"I know that." He sneered, regaining a little of his composure.

"Then you might as well tell me." She grinned, absent-mindedly twirling her fingers in his hair.

"I might... and I might let you wriggle like a worm on a hook. You're very sexy when you're frustrated you know." He smirked.

"I am not!" She cuffed him playfully on the shoulder.

"Yes, you are, you bite your lip and become all flustered, I wouldn't be surprised if you could melt a whole Quidditch stadium when your flustered," he replied sarcastically. She instantly stood up straighter and stopped biting her lip, "I wouldn't do that to a Quidditch team," she muttered, blushing to the roots of her hair.

"Sure, you say that now…" He laughed "…but who knows what you'd do if dear old Malfoy was being this naughty on an actual Quidditch pitch, you might even shout."

"I wouldn't." She huffed.

"I am so sure."

"The atrium" the familiarly cool female voiced intoned unnecessarily, and the golden grille slid shut. There was a sudden lurch and the floor moved upwards with unnerving shakiness.

"Besides," she added after a moment, "if we were at a Quidditch match, we wouldn't be on the pitch anyway."

"Department of Mysteries," the female voice stated, Hermione glimpsed the nondescript concrete hall that had haunted her nightmares for years (though not so frequently anymore) before the grille slid shut again and the lift carried them further upwards.

"We should go to a Quidditch game sometime," he replied, ignoring her grimace as they headed away from level nine.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Yes, we should go see the Cannons, that's where Weasel's working now isn't it?"

"Draco!"

"Right, sorry."

"No you're not," she snapped. She rolled her eyes and stopped twirling his hair around her fingers.

"Level ten, Department of Local Magical Representation, encompassing the Minister of Magic's office, Local Magical Law Enforcement Headquarters, Department of Local Trade, House of Records, Registry of Lawyers, and the Department of Magical Argumentation." They stepped off of the lift together, this floor was decidedly less crowded than the others, though all that they could see of it was the room that they now stood in, which was empty except for a batty-looking old woman writing steadily behind a polished wooden desk. She didn't look up as they approached.

"Er..." Draco nervously intertwined his fingers into Hermione's, the woman looked up.

"Oh!" she seemed to not have noticed them before and now lifted a small mirror off the desk, fixing her wispy white hair as best she could before turning back to them. "Yes?" she asked, blinking up at them from her.

"Er..." Draco repeated, scratching his temple nervously and once again unnecessarily scanning the empty room, as though looking for someone.

"We're here to get married," Hermione answered, eyeing him worriedly, he was looking very pale- even for him.

"Oh! How nice." The woman smiled congenially, "Do you need any help?"

"Yes." Hermione returned the slightly creepy smile and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, "We've never done this before… er... where do we go?"

The woman chuckled and ducked into a lower desk drawer, surfacing a moment later with a thick packet of professional-looking papers.

"Here" She turned held out the papers. Hermione took them warily; they were surprisingly heavy. "Fill these out and then head down to the Minister of Magic's office." Hermione nodded distractedly and made her way over to an avocado green couch. She moved aside one of the knobby pillows and sat down, beckoning for Draco to join her, he did.

"How are we going to do all that and still expect to get married today," he moaned, still glancing nervously around the room. She ignored him and, brandishing her wand, pointed it purposefully at the packet.

"_Emendate Obloquor_" she muttered and the first line, which had previously read "Bride name: last, first middle" and then a long, glaring blank read "Bride name: last, first middle Granger, Hermione Jane". The rest of the packet quickly followed suit and filled itself in as well.

"That's handy." He nodded approval as Hermione pocketed the papers and rose again to her feet, stretching as though she'd been sitting much longer than she actually had. This was mostly for show; you could never be sure what was legal inside ministry walls. He followed her, doubling around for a quick sweep of the room ("What is wrong with you!" she asked again) before hastening down the hall after her, almost slamming into her when she came to a sudden halt fifteen paces from a ornately carved wooden door.

"Wait..." She seemed to be thinking furiously before she drew the forms out of her pocket, unrolling them as she went. "Marriage License and Ceremony Form" she read, "To be given to the Minister of Magic..." She swallowed, her lips pursed rigidly. She stood perfectly still, most likely to balance the rampant, screaming sirens that were exploding in her head like so many Technicolor fireworks. Draco had held out a strong, steel-like grip onto her shoulder before she had even turned around.

"We don't have to do this..." he whispered hoarsely, "but he's going to find out eventually." Hermione stiffened, why did he know her so well?

"He won't do it."

"You don't know that, he could let us in then do it then let us out, he might not pass us a glance, you never know." He loosened his grip. She swallowed again.

"He could."

"He could." She had turned around so that they were facing, and he was looking directly into her eyes as he spoke— "so are we gonna do this?". It wasn't a question, not really, and so she didn't answer. She merely turned around and continued down the hall; a bit slower than before, but with no less an air of confidence. He followed languidly, humming a wedding march as he went.

"Stop that," she snapped; he suppressed a smile and continued silently after her, though the organ was still playing along in both their heads.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" He placed a hand on the small of her back; she had frozen before the Minister's door, her hand hovering inches from the doorknob. She nodded, grabbed the doorknob, twisted- perhaps more forcefully than she'd intended- and pulled, though the force that sent her flying backwards was caused by two people standing on the other side, who threw the door wide open and sent Hermione flying against the wall.

"Oh my god! Granger, are you okay!" the blurred and stretched face of Pansy Parkinson swam in front of Hermione's face. Hermione groaned and covered her eyes against the harsh lights that were growing in her blurred vision.

"Pansy?" she croaked, "What are you doing here?". She had a vague memory of someone shouting "Pansy Parkinson... run the other way," but it echoed and died and then someone was helping her onto her feet.

"I've gotten married Hermione! Isn't that great!" she squealed. Hermione's quickly gathering conscience registered that Pansy reeked of alcohol, and that a tall, dark haired man was stroking her hair. "Oh, I know it's a shock." She shrugged, grinning up at the unknown man, who was at least two heads taller than her.

Hermione merely squinted at them, her vision was quickly clearing but Pansy was still looking a bit wobbly.

"So what are you here for?" Pansy's diabolically sweet voice echoed in Hermione's head.

"Huh?" she suddenly didn't have the slightest idea what she was doing there...

"We're getting married." She turned to face Draco- oh, right. Draco, that's why she was there.

Pansy tried to repress a gasp, but too late, it had escaped and a disobedient hand had flown to her mouth.

"W-well... that's nice..." She was tugging at the hand of her new husband, who was staring stupidly up at the ceiling. "Come on!" She grabbed his hand and bolted down the hall, her stiletto heels clicking along the hardwood floors.

"Oh bugger!" Draco slapped his forehead and leaned against a nearby wall, "bugger bugger bugger!" He clenched his teeth as though waiting to be hit.

"What?" Hermione leaned into the wall next to him. He looked terrified.

"She's seen us, she knows," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

"So what! It's Pansy Draco, Pansy. Pansy Parkinson."

"I don't care that she's Pansy. She's a Parkinson. Her _daddy_ was as much a death eater as mine. Granger, she knows," he hissed angrily.

"What does she know?" She stroked his hair soothingly, though she really wasn't sure she wanted to know what was troubling him.

"She knows we're here. Which means that he—"

"DRACO LUCIFER MALFOY!" a voice from the end of the hallway roared, Hermione whirled around. Lucius Malfoy was storming down the hallway towards them, and Hermione would not have been surprised if the lights flickered and died in his wake. As it were they did not.

"Yes father?" Draco whispered hoarsely, he hadn't opened his eyes yet and so managed to look calm as he leaned against the wall.

"I heard a rumor about you," Lucius reached out and grabbed Draco by the earlobe, dragging him across the hall and away from Hermione, where they hissed vehemently at each other for a minute or so before Draco jumped back and drew his wand.

"How dare you! How... how, you, how..." he spat. "You vile... you evil... you damned... you bloody... you... you..." he seemed to be debating over whether or not he ought to send a powerful curse at his unarmed father.

"I forbid it!" Lucius roared.

"You can't control me!"

"I'll cut you out of the will!"

"I'll cut you out of existence!" "Draco Lucif—"

"Don't you go using my full name on me, I'm not fourteen anymore!"

"Clearly, at least when you were fourteen you knew a little about respecting your elders."

"Did I?"

"I... I forbid it!" Lucius repeated.

"You can't!"

"Yes I can, you are a MALFOY and I am your FATHER. If you go through with this wedding… I'll…"

"If I marry her what?" Draco spat, and for a second Lucius was taken aback. Clearly he was not interrupted often, if ever.

"If you marry her I will personally drag you by your precious hair through Palais de Malfoi for the very last time, and I will personally rip out your intestines and hang you from the tallest tower, leaving you in agony to die after hours of hanging by your insides..." he hissed with an air of practiced menace and intimidation.

"You've been threatening to do that since I had hair enough to drag," Draco retorted cooly, though he took a noticeably large step backwards and his stomach seemed to clench- though only Hermione would notice that.

"And I have yet to have had an opportunity quite so opportune," Lucius replied, noticeably drawing himself up to his full height, which was still at least three-inches higher than Draco. "I must admit," he continued, "it would be interesting to see how long that ancient gargoyle might hold up, but what a waste of a perfectly good molding."

"Indeed," Draco took another step back towards Hermione.

"And so, you see, I can forbid it, or at least... prevent it happening in a whole host of ways." He sneered.

"You can't control me!" Draco repeated, but he was faltering... he was running out of fuel.

"If you're going to act like you're sixteen I'll treat you like you're sixteen. And a sixteen-year-old is very easily manipulated." Lucius was grinning wickedly; Hermione's fingers were itching to slap that cocky smirk off of his face...

"Well..." Soon they were going to start shouting again- and then the Minister would come out. That could only make things worse...

A geyser of words welled up inside Hermione; she was going to start shouting as well. No, she had to keep her cool... Draco ought to have kept his; and why couldn't he? Why did she have to stay calm? She was the one being insulted, why couldn't he break up the fight? It was his father. Even inside her head she sounded stupid.

There was only one thing for it... though Hermione hadn't intended on saying it, ever, until after they were married... but this seemed a dire situation enough, yes. She was going to have to do it.

"Stop!" she screamed, her voice echoing forebodingly in the narrow hall. There was no going back now- "I'm pregnant!"


	5. Interlude: A Mundungus Story

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters; I'm just borrowing them for a while. Will return them whole (albeit a bit corrupted) when I'm done.

A/N: And all my reviewers scream in rage. Okay, I realize that this chapter seems completely and totally random and unrelated, but it'll all make sense in the end. And I also realize you wanted Lucius's reaction, well too bad– _maybe _next chapter. : - ) mwa ha ha ha. I am so evil, but there really is no better place to put this chapter, what with last chapter being such a fabulous cliffie. Let's just say this is a… erm… break in the episode, like in TV shows, for the moment. Promise next chapter will contain uber-Draco goodness.

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**"The District Attorney requested all the robbery victims to**** come to the police station to study a lineup of five people. He placed**** his suspect at the end of the line. Then he asked each to step forward**** and say, 'Give me all your money...and I need some change in quarters,**** nickels and dimes.' The first four did it right. However, when it was**** the last man's turn to recite, he broke the case by blurting out, '****That isn't what I said!'"**

CHAPTER FIVE

_INTERLUDE: A Mundungus Story_

**In which Dung gets lethally straddled and Ginger thinks too much...**

**_September 20, 2003_**

"Fetch us anover roun' Gin'er!"

The girl called Ginger turned on her over-worn pumps and scurried away behind the dilapidated bar– perhaps a little too eagerly because a second later there was another uproar from the smoky haze that surrounded table two. She ignored it and continued filling the grimy mugs with firewhiskey. She looked at the clock– two a.m.– why wouldn't they just leave? Her shift had ended three hours ago, why weren't they in their own respectable homes? She would certainly like to be in her home, however disrespectable it may be. Why were they still there?

She tapped off the jug of frothing liquor and stowed it under the bar, stealing into the back room, where a heavy wooden door blocked out the clanging of glass on glass and unnecessarily loud shouts.

_"Lumos_" she muttered. Long shadows were strewn across jugs that were spewing smoke across the floor.

Firewhiskey? Who drank firewhiskey any more? They clearly weren't up to anything legal, no one who came to the Hog's Head ever was. So why were they drinking firewhiskey? Every other petty criminal would drink elixir of midnight, or essence of deadly nightshade, or something else that was simply, perfectly illegal. So why firewhiskey? Were they so stupid they thought they could redeem themselves, or so genius they knew it would drive her mad? She didn't want to think about that.

She grabbed another jug of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey and hauled it out into the din.

And if they were petty criminals why hadn't they tried to pull anything yet? They'd been there three hours, why hadn't they grabbed her skirt, her sleeve, her wrist? They'd been as well behaved as criminals could be, and better behaved then most were.

"'ats a wench Gin'er." She placed a mug of bubbling alcohol in front of a man clad in stolen-looking gray robes. He was smoking a very smelly pipe that was the cause of the filthy cloud that hovered around his head…. and his associates' heads, for that matter.

Mundungus "Dung" Fletcher regularly attempted to disguise his way into the Hog's Head. Any self-respecting barmaid knew him on sight, or smell. The three men sitting across from him and eyeing their firewhiskey apprehensively had never been into the Hog's Head; but that didn't mean that Ginger didn't know them. She'd never met one of them, but she'd never wanted to either. _They _were the reason Dung hadn't been kicked out at first glance.

They were all at least a head taller than the average man, and they'd all obviously encountered a good number of fights in their lifetimes- though judging by the fact that they were all sitting complacently in a bar in the wee hours of the morning they'd most likely won all such fights. They all had desert-tanned skin and large, beak-like noses. They all had the same, penetrating, deep black eyes that sent strangers on the street reeling in the other direction; and the smallest, the man in the center, had a pair of small red horns protruding from his forehead.

It was the horns that gave him away.

Theywere, of course,the product of an irreversible curse inflicted upon him when he was a young boy; but that didn't stop bored house wives and gypsies with far-too-large imaginations from associating him with El Diablo. The goatee didn't help either.

They were all clad in the deep purple and gold robes that denoted Basielle descent. The robes, on top of the fact that they were clearly brothers, lead to only one, reluctantly reached, conclusion. They were the only three heirs to an ancient criminal fortune that spanned over five continents and eleven centuries. They were Rothbart the Rude, Ali the Knife, and Gabhiri the Unmerciful Basielle, and for reasons unknown they were in Hogsmeade, drinking firewhiskey with Mundungus Fletcher.

"These… things are… fast?" Ali,he was the representative mouth of Basielle Enterprises,asked, twirling a sparkly galleon between his thumb and forefinger. He flipped the coin.

"Faster 'n a barmaid at the Hogs' Head," Dung replied, his eyes following the gold coin in its graceful arc over Ali's head and then back into his palm.

"That is… fast?" Ali asked, once again twirling the coin.

"Let's ask Gin'er herself, shall we?" Dung grinned amicably and waved the grumpy-looking barmaid over.

"This had better be good Fletcher," she snapped as she slammed down the issue of "Witch Weekly" she'd been perusing and strode over to their table.

"Don't worry Gin'er, it's good. See my friend Ali here..." He gestured towards the purple-robed wizard, "was wondering…"

"Fair maiden..." Ali nodded at Ginger, who suddenly became very flustered, "I was simply wondering if this-" He flipped his wrist around to reveal a large golden necklace where the galleon had been, "was yours.".

"Yes… I do, I do think that is mine," she replied, flipping a long plait of auburn over her shoulder.

"But how can I be certain?" He smiled, revealing oddly even teeth. "How do I know that this is not another one of these lovely women's? I'm sure they would like it."

"We could go… try it on, upstairs." Ginger smiled, nodding towards the rickety-looking staircase tucked away in the corner.

"There is a mirror there?" Ali asked.

"Yes, in the bedroom," she replied, absent-mindedly fingering the fringe on her skirt.

"Well then, we will go." He nodded, and followed her languidly up the steps.

"That is fast," Rothbart, or at least Dung was almost certain it was Rothbart, acknowledged approvingly.

"Our brother is stupid." Gabhiri spat, slamming his mug onto the table.

"Gabhiri…" Rothbart hissed, glancing around the room nervously.

"He is! That woman would have gone for money! Even athome he insists on turning galleons into necklaces, he is flimsy and weak."

"He is a good leader," Rothbart mumbled, talking more to his mug than to Gabhiri.

"He is a self-centered ass!" Gabhiri screeched.

"He is…"

"He does not care about you! Why do you protect him? He will kill you! He is the oldest,you cannot succeed the fortune,you will be poor when he is leader.You will die."

"You would speak so ill of he who is your brother?"

"I would, and you would not stop me." Gabhiri grabbed a bottle from the next table over and cracked it on Rothbart's head. Luckily for Rothbart, he did not only look thick-headed, he was.

"BAR FIGHT!" a drunkard two tables away hollered, smashing his bottle on the bar.

* * *

Dung never was certain how he'd ended up in the alley behind the Hog's Head; but he _was_ certain that's where he ended up, he'd recognize that alley anywhere. "Well," he said to the night air, "that went well." He wiped his hands on his robe (which only served to make them dirtier) and made to reach for his wand in his pocket. It wasn't there. 

Next second, he was laying on his back in the mud, a strong knee pressed into his chest and a broadsword pressed to his neck.

"This meeting tonight has cost my family one-million galleons, Fletcher," Layla the Lethal Basielle hissed, her voice was like dark chocolate, rich and smooth and too, too strong for two in the morning. Dung groaned inwardly, that had not gone well at all. "My brothers are dead," she continued, not sounding remorseful at all, "I am now an heiress, did you know that Dung?"

"No," he managed. She pressed the blade more firmly against his collar.

"Did you know that Dung?" she repeated.

"Yes?" he whispered hoarsely, hoping against hope that it was what she wanted to hear.

"Good." She did not relax her force on the blade. "Now Dung, make any attempt to move your head and I kill you right here and now," she hissed. She reached her free hand into her pocket and drew out a small vial, she uncorked it with her teeth and then held the mouth of the vial very close to Dung's lips. It was too dark to see but Dung was certain she was smiling in sadistic pleasure.

"I suppose, Fletcher, that you know my choice method of killing, no? I said don't move your head." Dung stopped himself mid-nod. he continued, "This vial is filled with one dram of a mixture known as Pirate's Tears." Dung whimpered. She ignored him. "Naturally, it is not the tears of actual pirates, I assure you that while a pirate's tears may give you an enviable stomach ache it would not, in fact, be nearly as lethal as this. No, Pirate's Tears..." She was speaking barely above a whisper but he could hear every word "...is pure, undiluted hate." He whimpered again.

"One drop would kill you instantly. Two would kill you instantly, and then revive you, and then kill you again in horrible, gruesome, painful ways. Three would kill you in such a state of pain that you would hallucinate for weeks before the pain finally ended in the final cacophony of death. Four would kill you instantly, but would keep you in such a state of pain that even after death you would writhe in your coffin. Just a whiff would send a man into cardiac arrest. You have by your lips a full dram, do you know how many drops are in a dram Dung?" She leaned forward so he could see the lights from across the street glittering like tiny bonfires in her eyes, he gulped.

"You don't? Well then, I suppose you wouldn't want to find out any time soon."


	6. CHAPTER SIX

Disclaimer: All familiar characters, places, events, and/or relationships belong to J.K. Rowling, what's mine is mine.

A/N: Yay! Two chapters up once, woot! Anyway, back to the story.

* * *

**"Some people are like slinkies: not really good for anything... but you can't help laughing when you push them down the stairs."**

A Perfect Day to Elope

CHAPTER SIX

**In which Draco has a pet snake and Hermioneis slytherinny...**

**_September 24, 2003_**

"One… two… three…" Draco curled his toes around the end of the board and sprung forward into Mer de Malfoi.

Mer... Lucius was such a self-righteous asshole sometimes... or all the time. The "Mer" was hardly a pool, let alone a sea. It was more of a cove, really, sunk into the ground of a flickering cavern a mile under the Palais, lit by a hundred dragon-shaped lanterns.

He would, naturally, have to ask her whom she was cheating with before he called off the wedding.

In accordance with popular belief, Draco Malfoy was not a virgin. But contrary to popular belief he had never seen more of Pansy Parkinson than what she showed the general public, which was quite a lot as she had graced the pages of "Playwizard" quite a few times, and had starred in the low-budget film "Is That Your Wand In Your Pocket, Or Are You Just Glad to See Me?" No, models were more to his taste… _French_ models- like that Fleur Delacour.

But Hermione Granger, of all people he thought that she would wait until she was married. She never wore anything skimpier than that teddy he'd got her for Valentine's Day, and as far as he knew she'd only worn that once.

The only other person she'd dated since Hogwarts was a Weasley, and no one would shag a Weasley.

Weasley- self-righteous assholes. Who were _they_ to tell him he couldn't marry his fiancé?

Fiancé, it had almost been wife. Damn it Pansy, such a Slytherin- not that there was anything wrong with that.

And now she was pregnant, how? It'd been atleast… three years? Yes, three years since they'd left, at least. If the kid wasn't his it ought to have been born already, unless she'd been cheating on him, and recently too or it would've shown.

"Draco?" his head broke through the icy surface and he met and identical pair of cold gray eyes.

"Yes?"

"You know I don't like awkward silences, silence is a sign of fear or respect, neither of which I have for you, so I'll get to the point." Lucius's expression was unreadable. "You do realize that if, indeed, your… girlfriend is… with child, that would mean…"

"That would mean I would have to marry her, I realize, for the family," Draco interrupted, treading water in the most annoyed way that water can be trodden in.

"For the family, yes… _and _for your mother, and for your own reputation."

"And for the family's reputation."

"Alright, and it's more than that too." He sighed as Draco swam another length of the pool. "Everyone known you're dating. Everyone assumes you're sleeping together." He grimaced. "If you broke it off and then she had a blonde little illegitimate out of wedlock, you'd look like a heartless asshole."

"Following in dear old dad's footsteps." Draco sneered.

Lucius ignored him. "We've got enoughtrouble to deal with with those damned aurors in and out of the house all day."

"Just imagine how pleased the Prophet would be." Draco formed an invisible marquee in the air- "Acquitted Death Eater Fathers Heartless Asshole, Grandfather to Blonde Bastard." He smirked at his own joke.

"It's not funny, the…" Draco swam off again. "Even if it's not yours- even if it's a _Weasley._" He kneeled down beside the water, his lips pursed in irritation. "You forget Draco. Nobody..." Lucius cracked his knuckles menacingly. "Nobody cheats a Malfoy,

"You will raise this child as your own, understand?" He grabbed Draco's hair and pulled his head back so that he was looking directly into Lucius's piercingly practiced gaze.

"I never thought of doing anything else," he choked.

"Good." Lucius released Draco's hair "...and your fiancé is upstairs, so you might want to wash before waltzing around in your swim costume."

"I might."

* * *

As houses went, Malfoy Manor (or "Palais de Malfoi" as the house elf who'd let her in had called it) was decidedly big. Hermione guessed that the entry hall alone would hold two normal sized houses. The ceiling was a cavernous dome, looming high above her head in the form of an unnervingly realistic dragon mural. 

Where the walls were flat they were covered in a dark, dark green, but only spots of wall could be seen. Most of the walls were covered, frame-to-frame, in centuries of white-blonde Malfoys, all of whom were glaring disapprovingly down at her.

"You'd think they'd learn about recessive genes," she muttered to herself.

"What's _she_ doing here" one of the portraits, a little white-blonde boy who looked to be about three, finally said.

"Shut up! We're not to talk to the aurors," the woman who's lap he was seated on hissed.

"I'm not an auror," Hermione replied, trying to seem friendly, or as friendly as one could be to a portrait.

"No-one said anything to you," an old, beaky woman with her tresses done up in an elaborate sculpture atop her head snapped.

"And I didn't say anything to you," Hermione snapped back, her tongue proving once again to cut any argument into shreds.

"Filthy mudblood," the largest portrait, a painting of Lucius himself, muttered.

At this, every portrait seemed to have something to say and the room was filled with "Mudblood? Never in my house!" and "That damn elf! Spy! Spy!" and "That lying wench! Get her out! Get her out!" and "I told you she was an auror! Lies!"

Hermione sighed and sat down, then thought better of it and jumped up again. You never could be sure what was laced with the dark arts, especially in a Malfoy Mansion. She eyed the chair apprehensively.

"The aurors took away all the cursed chairs," a voice by her ear drawled. She turned around and found her herself looking at a very familiar profile.

"Why didn't you say anything before?" she hissed.

"Why would I help a filthy mudblood like you?" Draco's portrait sneered. Hermione leaned forward to read the tiny plaque stuck at the bottom of the frame.

"Draco Lucifer Malfoy," she read aloud, "Age 13, oh… you are a slimy little git aren't you?"

"Atleast I'm not a mudblood," he snapped. She laughed.

"Atleast I can turn my head properly." She grinned, Draco's profilescowled.

"I suppose this boy over here is you too then?" She pointed at the small boy who'd first spoken.

"Most likely,"

"You're so cute!" she cooed, moving over to examine the next picture. "Draco Lucifer Malfoy and Narcissa Daphne Black Malfoy, ages three and twenty-three." Draco eyed her appraisingly, which was ridiculous of course because he was much too young to have anything to judge her against, and Narcissa's eyes were narrowed at her as one might look at a particularly troublesome stain.

"Hi, my name is Draco," he said finally. Narcissa snatched his hand away as he raised it to wave. "What's your name?". Hermione laughed, she'd never really thought of her boyfriend- no, her fiancé- as every being a child, and if she had it had always been along the lines of "What it must have been like to grow up in Malfoy Manor." There he looked oddly, normal.

"My name's Hermione," she replied, smiling genuinely back at the fidgety little boy.

"That's a funny name."

"My parents are crazy."

"You know what Herm… Hermi… Hermo… you know what?"

"What?"

"I had a pet snake once."

"Did you?"

"Yep, his name was, um… Boni… Bonifa… it was a little hard, cause I'm a little bit little and I can't say some big words, so I just called him Bo."

"Really? And what happened to Bo?"

"He ran away."

"Oh."

"But it's okay cause he took his leash with him, so someone could find him and he could be their pet now and they could feed him, and pet him for me."

"That's good."

"Yeah, and mummy says, mummy, mummy says we could get a _dragon_, maybe, sometime, if Bo doesn't come back."

"I never _did_ get that dragon." Hermione turned to face her fiancé, who was dripping water all over the marble and, naturally, still wearing his swim costume.

"So Bo came back then?" she teased as he made an attempt to brush a wet strand of hair off of his forehead.

"Nope, Bo did not." He stopped playing with his hair and turned to face her. "You've come to apologize then?"

"For what?" She raised a quizzical eyebrow at him. his expression was, like so many of the portraits' that lined his entry hall, unreadable.

"For sleeping with a Weasley, of course. Oh, it's not like I'm surprised. I _would_ have been surprised if you said you'd slept with Potter, but then that would mean that he'd have to have a definite gender, and as it is he does not."

She seemed torn between anger and confusion for a moment before her hand rose and cuffed his arrogant countenance.

"That was uncalled for," he snarled, rubbing his cheek where her fingerprints were still red beneath his left eye.

"_That _was uncalled for," she retorted, showing no signs of moving to kiss his boo-boo, or even apologize for slapping him.

"What?" he mirrored her wrathful glare.

"You didn't need to insult my friends, _or_ me." She flared, bristling at the utter stupidity of his question.

"And _you_ didn't need to lie to me!" he retorted, vehemently taking an intimidating step towards her and drawing up to his full stature.

"I _didn't_ lie to you," she roared, then froze. "I just, omitted the truth," she mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

"What? Oh, yes, sure love, I'm just going to go shag a weasel now, if that's alright with you," he roared, "sure, it didn't at all sound like 'Right love, just going to the grocery.'"

"You ignorant asshole! You don't even _bother_ to think that maybe, once, the world isn't out to get you. Maybe, just this one time, your girlfriend isn't a sneaky, cheating gold digger who's out for all she can get. Maybe, did you think, maybe this once, you don't know the whole story."

"I _apparently _didn't know you were sleeping with Weasley!"

"hm… maybe that's because I WASN'T!"

"Well you _certainly_ weren't doing anything with _me_. I'd think if you were gonna shag someone you'd shag your boyfriend."

"Well apparently you think wrong, If I was gonna shag someone, I'd shag my _husband_, and as of yet I haven't got one."

"Really? You'd think it'd be easy for such a lovely little tart like you to find a husband, but apparently not, apparently they don't _like_ mudbloods where you're- oh shit…"

"You… you…" Hermione's entire form had tensed and she was shaking with the force of holding the monsoon of words that had suddenly welled up inside her throat at the same time as attempting to stay standing while she was certain every ounce of blood inside her had turned to pure, red rage.

"Oh, damn it Hermione…" he took a step towards her and she took two steps backwards.

"It's Granger to _you_," she snarled through clenched teeth, then turned on her heel and ran headlong out the front door.

She didn't go far. In fact, she stayed close enough so that when he went speeding out the door after her (after, mind you, a very long self-bashing session in his entry hall) he tripped over her and fell head-over-heels down the unnecessarily long black marble stairway. The experience would later be compared to that of getting married.

"Oh my god! Draco!" she screamed and bounded down the steps after him, drawing her wand from her pants pocket and streaking after him. "_Arrestez Momentum_!" she bellowed. There was a sharp white light and his rapid descent slowed as though he were falling through very thick water. He tumbled down one last step before landing with a painful sounding _crack_.

"Oh my god, are you alright?" Hermione gasped, tumbling off of the bottom stair to land on the ground beside him.

"Yes," he lied, trying to ignore the pain in his back.

"Good." She grinned and sat herself on his stomach. "Now..." she began, "_You_ are not to move or try to move until I've had my say, alright?"

"I don't like that plan."

She ignored him and continued in a low whisper. "From our little scene in the minister's office yesterday..."

"Two days ago," he interrupted. She sighed.

"From our little scene in the minister's office two days ago, one can draw a number of conclusions. One of these conclusions being that I'm pregnant."

"Gee, where would someone get a crazy idea like that?" he snapped.

"I want to marry you. But due to our"

"You certainly have an odd way of showing it," he drawled.

"Due to our differences"

"No, just stop," he barked. She frowned and looked as though she might say something but then thought better of it and nodded. "_I_ don't want to marry _you_. You're right, there are a number of conclusions one can draw from our 'little scene', none of them leading up to us living 'happily ever after'. The first conclusion is that A) You're pregnant and B) the baby must be mine since we're engaged and you're you." He paused. She didn't show signs of commenting so he continued. "That'd be lovely, as then you would have shagged me senseless at some point or another, and then we could live 'happily ever after'. But you haven't, much to my lonely displeasure mind you, I think that'd be something to see. So the bastard isn't and never has been mine."

"But, see..."

"One would then assume that you've been sneaking around behind my back. This is quite a disturbing assumption because then one would ask 'Was it just once? Was it more? Is it a fling? Is it love?' And if, indeed, it was love, what am I to do? Because then you clearly don't love me yet I am forced to marry you. You see?"

She thought about this for a moment and then replied: "And one would think one was very smart for assuming as thus, correct? And one would be very smart, but not as smart as one thinks one is." Draco frowned, watching his plan crumble around him as she moved in for the blow. "Because one would not be thinking about who_ else _was there..."

"Me, you, and..." his voice trailed off.

"And Lucius, who hates me with every fiber of his fiberless being." She nodded.

If, at that moment, Draco Malfoy's thought process had been a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle, one could have watched the final pieces clicking into place, starting a long chain of reactions that began with his eyes lighting up and ended with him sitting up so quickly that Hermione was thrown onto the ground beside him.

"You... and Lucius... and..." he faltered, fumbling over the words that usually came so naturally. "_You knew_!"

"I didn't know anything, I _guessed_." She blushed, looking, for reasons he would never understand, deeply ashamed.

"You knew and you... and you told him you were pregnant so he'd force us to get married! That's genius!"

"I don't know about that..." she laughed.

"That brilliant! That's genius! That's Slytherinny! That's _hot_!"

"Hot?" She sat up, eyeing him curiously.

"Sexy, randy, risque, Malfoy-esque"

"Alright, I get it. It's not _that_ impressive." She blushed and even deeper shade of scarlet.

"Not that impressive? It's brilliant! You are a _genius_!"

"Does that mean you want to marry me again?"

"Indeed." He slapped his palm against the marble ground for emphasis. "Now, where are we going for dinner?"

"_We _are not going anywhere." She stood to brush a bit of dust off her lap.

"Wha-"

"After you called me a... a that. You'd be lucky to get a kiss goodbye!"

"Am I lucky then?" He stood up in front of her.

"Very." She grinned. "So where are we going?"


	7. CHAPTER SEVEN

Disclaimer: Yeah, anything you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling, anything you don't recognize is mine.

* * *

**"Trying to find the perfect mate in the dance scene is like trying to find a perfect grape that skipped the crushing process in a bottle of fine wine. It's not impossible, just extremely rare. The scene can be very hot, very sensual, and very dangerous if you innocently fall prey to it. Like a viper, it can pierce your soul and spirit. The musical rhythms penetrate your veins, and its hypnotic affect could make you fall inexplicably 'in love' with virtually any confident and powerful dancer you come across - if you let it."** –Edie the salsa FREAK A Perfect Day to Elope

CHAPTER SEVEN

**In which Draco plays the fairy godmother and Hermione doesn't dance...**

_September 24, 2003_

The interior of Fuego Pierna was exactly what one would expect by looking at its outside, which is to say that it was crowded, loud, and very red. It was crowded because two days ago the _Daily Prophet_ had reported that its "Hip-to-hip, passion-driven air was enough to make a salsaholic out of anyone". So, naturally, all the forty and fifty-year-old witches and wizards in Britain had put on their oldest, tackiest dancing clothes and clambered to get inside. They, however, were not affecting the air in the place itself, as they had been politely but firmly told by a very large man with bristle-brush eyebrows to wait their turn as twenty-somethings in bright red miniskirts and pants made out of various animal skins swept smoothly through the velvet rope.

Though Draco Malfoy _had _put on a new pair of hot red snakeskin pants, his date had not donned a fire-engine miniskirt. But even men with viciously under plucked eyebrows understand gold, and they'd been admitted without further argument.

So they had taken their seats at the bar and were enjoying quite a nice view of the dance floor while sipping martini glasses filled with a thick, red drink that had been labeled simply "Ambrosia". The bartender had described it with such a loving fervor that they'd have considered it an offense not to order it. Hermione thought it tasted rather like thinner cherry Jell-O.

"Good evening ladies and gentleman, and welcome! Welcome my lovelies to Feugo Pierna! You are now relaxing in the number one Latin dance _fiesta _in the whole of wizarding England!"A resounding 'woot' rose up from the crowd as the woman on the stage, she appeared to be in her mid-twenties, waved her arms as if to say 'ta-da'. "So get your arses off those stools, set your sights on the dance floor, click your heels together and hold onto your sanity cause it's gonna get loco!"

At this most of the couples rushed out onto the floor and started twirling in crazy, fluid dances as the band launched into a heady cha-cha.

Hermione took a long sip from her glass. "No," she stated simply, never taking her eyes off the parquet.

"No what?" Draco tried to smile innocently, a look he'd never quite mastered and so had the terrifying effect of turning him into a sleazy car salesman.

"Don't even ask," she replied, ignoring his question and turning to look him full in the eyes. The effect was unnerving.

"I wasn't going to," he lied; she could practically see the wheels turning underneath his meticulously combed white-blonde locks.

"You're a terrible liar Malfoy," she grinned and turned back to the floor.

"And you're a wonderful liar, so we're even," he snapped, his plans apparently snuffed for the moment.

"'Cause I'm not going to," she added after a long silence, "so don't bother."

"I wasn't going to," he answered, leaning closer to her in a movement so fluid and smooth she didn't even notice.

"Good." She smiled, a little relieved, and took another sip of her drink.

"But you know what?" he whispered, and she suddenly realized how close he was, too close perhaps…

"Yes?" she eyed him warily, moving away every so slightly. He followed.

"I never said I wouldn't not ask," he sneered, and she realized too late was happening. He grabbed her hand, too smooth to be noticed immediately, and dragged her out onto the dance floor.

"Draco… I don't think I'm dressed for this," she hissed, alternately trying to find the all-too-fast cha-cha beat while ducking under swinging arms and dodging stiletto-heeled stomps.

"No problem," he replied, "ever heard of Cinderella?" He grabbed her hand again and dragged her further onto the floor until she was a periwinkle dot on a sea of fiery red.

She nodded, she didn't like that smile at all…

"So…" He took her right hand in his and lifted it casually over her head. "Spin!"

The room spun on its center and people bent in ways that weren't physically possible. She closed her eyes and tightened her grip on his fingers; if he kept spinning her she was certainly going to fall.

Something was happening to the air in the room, it was becoming cooler if anything, though the heat that seemed to flow like water through the air still pressed down on her like a balmy glove. And it wasn't only that, her hair seemed to be crawling up her neck; but that was insane, of course. Hair didn't _crawl_. She really wished he'd stop spinning her...

Then it happened, her eyes flew open and she fell; but no, she couldn't be falling. Gravity wouldn't allow her to fall so slowly, so _gracefully_. Maybe she was dying, maybe soon she'd see her life flash before her eyes. Maybe she was just so dizzy that everything was happening in slow motion, but the dancers were still thrashing to a ridiculously fast cha-cha; that couldn't be it. She glanced up at the rapidly rising ceiling and suddenly her vision was filled with a pair of leering gray eyes. Her descent slowed further and she noticed the firm grip snaked around her waist. There was a fantastic squeal from the lone trumpeter and the music stopped in sync with her floor-ward dip.

"That was highly unnecessary," she snapped, though her voice lacked the necessary passion to carry off such a blatant lie.

"True." He smirked. "I could've let you go after the spin, but what kind of showman would I have been then?"

"Fine, just, put me down."

He did; and she hit the floor with a painful-sounding thud.

"Ow… you do realize there're people around, right?" she snapped, sitting up and rubbing her elbow.

"Oh, yes, right." He leaned down and extended a hand, "Watch your step my lovely _pregnant fiance._" He smirked, speaking much louder than was really necessary. Where was Rita Skeeter when you needed her?

She rose shakily onto her aching feet and noticed three things: A) that her ankle hurt a lot, B) that the cause of this pain was a pair of slinky black stiletto heels she knew she hadn't been wearing before and C) that her shoes were not the only part of her outfit that seemed to have changed. In fact, her preferred periwinkle sweater and blue jeans seemed to have been transformed into a strappy red halter dress with a rolling plethora of ruffles trimming the asymmetrical hem. Halter dress- she _never_ wore halters. Only people like… _Pansy _wore halters, and she certainly wasn't a Pansy. That's why she never straightened her hair. Her hands instinctively flew up to her hair, which had apparently been sleeked but- she realized with a smile as she pulled playfully on a corkscrew lock- not straightened. However, how her hair had ended up on top of her head, curly or not, was another matter. It was all very _Cinderella _like…

"Coming love?"

She glared reproachfully at the hand offered to her. "I _never_ wear halters."

"Apparently, you do." He offered the hand again, "and I might add that although I personally have no problem with your sitting on the floor all night I have the notion that the other people who'd like to maybe, I don't know, _dance_ where you are might just mind."

"No need to be sarcastic," she snapped, ignoring his offered hand and pushing herself shakily up onto unfamiliar shoes. "Now..." She dusted off her new skirt, "if you'd please, I feel the need to get off this dance floor."

She turned on her heel and made as though heading for the bar. She froze mid-step.

"Changed your mind then Granger?"

"Shut up Malfoy," she snapped, swinging her head left and right. She'd caught something on the air, something terribly familiar. Her eyes scanned the throng of red in a stare Professor McGonagall would've been proud of. She sniffed the air. Where was it? She spun full circle, searching desperately for that conspicuous scent of mint, Quidditch, and…

"Harry!"

"Hermione?" Harry Potter was not, thank god, wearing snakeskin pants of any sort. In fact, he was dressed all in black (a color he'd been choosing a lot lately, though Hermione couldn't know that) and it appeared he'd tried to tame his hair a bit. He was considerably taller than Hermione and so, dressed all in black and standing against a background of dancing red, Hermione had the fleeting impression that he was intimidating. That was ridiculous, of course, Harry Potter was no more intimidating than your average celebrity who's had a little bit to drink. Which is to say that though he was prone to getting angry if you asked for his autograph, if one was to have a polite conversation with him one might find him rather agreeable. He did not, however, get many requests for autographs anymore. This was mainly on account of his scar, or lack thereof. Yes, Harry Potter's forehead was finally and blissfully blank.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione squealed.

"Not my choice, trust me," he grumbled, looking slightly embarrassed to be caught in a dance club. "I'm actually looking for my date, have you seen… but no, you wouldn't know her."

"Wouldn't I?" She cocked an eyebrow and smirked knowingly.

"No, I don't think so." He laughed nervously.

"Yeah…" He looked around uncomfortably, he seemed to be choosing his words very carefully. "Ron's… Ron's here and..." she felt her stomach clench and she automatically ducked down a bit. "Well, I think he'd really like to see… you," he finished gravely, but he wasn't looking at Hermione anymore. His eyes had found their mark on a spot behind her; he didn't seem to like what he saw.

"Potter." Hermione felt a protective hand press into the small of her back. She could almost hear Draco scowling; there was no need to scowl like that.

"Malfoy." Harry nodded, she realized Harry had straightened, an effect that brought him still another inch taller. Hermione grimly wondered why everyone was so tall. "I see you're still dating then."

"We are," Hermione replied conversationally before Draco could say anything to make their situation worse.

"Oh…" Harry once again seemed to be thinking his words over, "that's… nice."

"Is it?" Draco sneered; Hermione flinched involuntarily as the hand on her back traced a line up to her shoulder.

"Yes, I think it's _very_ nice. Now, as I was saying to Hermione before you interrupted."

_Oh god no_ Hermione thought, biting into her lip even as she could see disaster hurtling like a speeding train towards her.

"Yes, tell me, what were you saying?"

"I was simply telling her than _Ron_ was over at the bar just now and that I think he'd really like to see her," Harry said through clenched teeth.

"Is he now? Well, we were dancing so…" Draco slid his hand into hers and tugged a little as if to drag her away. She didn't react, merely dug her toes into the floor and untangled her fingers from his.

"You would want to run away," Harry muttered, just loud enough so they could hear. Hermione, who had been halfway to untangling Draco's other hand from her waist, quickly pressed it back onto her hip and grabbed his left hand in hers.

"What do you mean by that?" she asked, though she already knew and hated the answer.

"I don't know, why don't you ask _Ron_? He ought to know something about how fast you run," Harry spat. Another dance, a rumba, had started, but none of them cared or noticed.

"I didn't run." Hermione flared, gripping Draco's hand tighter. He squeaked.

"Didn't you? I don't know, that's what it's called when you leave in a hurry like that."

"You don't know what it was like."

"WHAT _WHAT_ WAS LIKE 'MIONE? WHAT IT WAS LIKE AFTER YOU _LEFT_? YEAH, I THINK I KNOW THAT PRETTY WELL. _I _WAS THERE, UNLIKE _SOME_ PEOPLE. _I_ WAS THERE."

"You are such an _ASS!_" Hermione screamed, "Do you know what it's like to be engaged to someone you don't love? Do you know what it's like to go through all the paces, to go through every scenario in your head and then it comes to the end and there you are, at the altar, and you _don't love your husband_. I couldn't _do that_ to Ron!"

"THEN YOU COULD HAVE TOLD HIM."

"You know damn well I couldn't!"

"YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO RUN AWAY WITH" He cast a death-glare at Draco, "_HIM."_

"That is _no way_ to talk about _my_ fiancé!"

Harry froze, struck dumb. Hermione didn't wait for him to react, she stormed off in the opposite direction and further into the crowd.

"Couldn't have the baby born out of wedlock could we?" Draco added, and he rushed off after her.

He came up scowling behind her.

"That bastard," he spat, panting slightly from running after her. She turned around to face him.

"Let's dance," she said it as though it were a new concept, as though the idea had just dawned upon her and she'd rather like to try it out.

"What?" he asked, apparently shocked stupid.

She didn't repeat the command, but grabbed his hands in hers and pulled him out onto what she was certain must have been somewhere around the middle of the floor. The rumba ended and they clapped in politeness; though Draco, who had finally caught onto what was happening, was eager to get the next song started before she changed her mind.

"Ladies and gentleman." Aman in a slick white tuxedo had strode onto the stage, "boy, are you in for a treat. Tonight, for your musical enjoyment, you will be presented with the musical stylings of Mr. Mitch Bryneski!"

The lights in the club faded to a dark red and a single spotlight shone down on the stage, where a man- or it looked like a man, his face was hidden in shadow- was seated on a silver stool.

"Good evening ladies and gentleman..." His voice was smooth, as though he didn't use it often. "Tonight we'd like to play a little tune for you, and we really hope you like it 'cause we need the money to get back to New York."

Then the lights blared into life and the trumpet section began to play. It was a cha-cha, a simple cha-cha. She turned to him, nodded, and then started.

One two cha cha cha One two cha cha cha One two 

"Oh, sorry!" she squeaked as her heel dug into his toes.

"_Relax_ Granger," he sighed, "look," he took her hands lightly in his as the band reached a short crescendo.

Then the man began to sing.

"Look at me Granger, look." Draco held her eye contact. "One two, hold hold hold. Look, when I move my right foot you move your left, it's like a… motor." He knew muggle studies would come in handy someday. "Alright now, stop looking at your feet. Start with your left and back two hold. I said stop looking at your feet." Hermione snapped to attention. "Eye contact is key now so… right two hold hold, left two hold hold, right,"

She followed his lead and even ventured to swing her hips a bit. He let go of her right hand and spun her, slowly. There was another fantastic trumpet crescendo and they moved back and forth with the beat. She twirled out and then in, so that they were pressed hip to hip and palm-to-palm. They moved slowly side to side, then she spun out again and three-stepped back in.

"Granger, look, this isn't a bloody cha-cha, it's a salsa," he hissed into her ear and she swung under his arm.

"The difference?"

"This," he took her hand and spun her out, she twirled back in as before and then, before she knew what she was doing, she was pressed up against him with her right leg wrapped around his left.

"Oh," she managed to get out before he moved back and she was sent into a low lunge. He slid forward and drew her up, letting his hands linger in hers before they started again with the basic step.

One two hold hold One two hold hold 

They circled around each other for a few tense moments, though who was the predator and who was the prey neither could say. She slid into him and they spun three-hundred-and-sixty degrees before she spun out. He followed. They swayed sideways, leaning with the music as it rose and fell like crimson waves. She reached up behind his head and entwined her fingers in his hair. He reluctantly spun her around to face him and dipped her low, pulling her up into a fantastic spin as the drummer reached another fantastic climax. She pretended to be dancing away before he caught her around the waist and slid his hands down her sides. She spun around to face him.

The music stopped, but it wasn't over. He nodded and she looked deep into his dancing gray eyes. The music started again and they surged forward, moving as one with the music.

One two left look 

_One two right look_

_One two hold hold_

_One two right look_

He dipped her low over one knee and she came up spinning, he ran a hand over her back as they circled around again, never breaking eye contact. He took her hands and brought them over his head, spinning her around and then sliding her down into the lowest dip yet. The music stopped, but he couldn't seem to pull his eyes away from hers.

"Let's go." She sighed, panting slightly as the consequences of so much dancing finally caught up with her. He planted a swift kiss on her lips and then helped her up and off the floor.

* * *

A/N: Okay, been a while (or at least Jillian says it has, lol. Just kidding Jill ) Anyways, this chapter has a dance scene in it. YAY! I love to write dance, yippee! Besides the fact that from the first DM/HG story I read I have decided that they are most definitely a salsa/tango couple, and if they're not singing while dancing, they might as well be swaying to some kick-ass music. Anyways, to fully _envision_ this scene one might want to know EXACTLY which song our favorite couple was dancing to. Well, if you don't like it you can always choose something more 'passionate' probably, like Tango de Roxanne from Moulin Rouge (if you wanted). Imagination is always a fun toy. But the song I was listening to while writing that particular bit is one "Sway" as sung by Michael Bublé (though it was originally sung by Dean Martin, and apparently there's also a Pussycat Dolls cover of it. Sweet.), which can be found at his website (The Pussycat Dolls one can be foundon Launchcast, where you can see their video of it). You just hold your cursor on the little bar near the bottom and then 'Sway' is one of three songs that can be heard there at the sight. It's not fabulous quality but it ought to give you a fairly good idea. If you like it I highly recommend the CD. Yup, and much love to all of you who have been and will be reviewing. I love you all to no explicable end! 

P.S. Yes, the red snakeskin pants are a direct tribute to Jonathan Rhys-Meyers in Titus, anybody that picked that up before I said it is the COOLEST. Yum.


	8. CHAPTER EIGHT

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize does not belong to me.

**"Anything simple** **always interests me." - David Hockney**

CHAPTER EIGHT

**In which Hermione succumbs to the power of wedding magazines and Draco is insensitive...**

**_September 24, 2003_**

"_Finite Incantato_" Hermione waved her wand over her shoulders and watched, with a certain amount of satisfaction, as the halter dress melted into her favorite blue sweater and jeans.

The nightlife at Diagon Alley is something unlike the nightlife in any other part of the world. For one, all the nightclubs, which aren't there during the day but which appear at eight and disappear at four, expel pounding techno beats, elated trumpet squeals, and screaming guitar solos. The congealed sound gives the streets a kind of unearthly soundtrack that blares, bleary-eyed, into the wee hours of the morning. Dancing along to this pell-mell harmony are the mélange and spawn of midnight. Glitter children mingle with head bangers and women in long black evening gowns still clutching their opera glasses, creating a glittering mass of incompatible dialects and slang. They duck under swinging arms and ooh and ah over street performers of an unparalleled caliber, street performers who dance on top of two-man-high platform shoes and swing shimmering flags in rainbow colored patterns while calling to passersby that they ought to go into such-and-such club, or dance the night away over a cold bottle of some-or-other wine. The effect of all this glitter is to make one feel sickly as though one has been thrown smack into the middle of a Baz Luhrmann film gone terribly terribly wrong.

"You haven't changed your hair back," Draco remarked, pulling on one of her soft brown curls.

"Are you saying my hair wasn't this pretty before you messed around with it?" she teased, playfully pushing his hand away from her hair.

"Not at all," he replied hurriedly.

"Good." She laughed, watching as a group of teens in feather boas and sparkly go-go boots danced by. "Shall we go then?"

"Where? The sky is clear, we've got galleons to spare, _the night is young._"

"Is it?"

"It is."

"Let's… erm, well… if we could just..."

"Of course we could see if Flourish and Blotts is open Granger, why didn't you ask before?"

"There's no need to tease. I like to read," said Hermione. He looked dubious, but nonetheless snaked a keen arm around her shoulders and lead her down the street, swiveling under a pair of magenta stilts and then turning so that they were face-to-face with the bookstore, which easily dwarfed the buildings around it.

* * *

Flourish and Blotts was, indeed, open, much to Hermione's pleasure and Draco's annoyance. She ignored this and surged inside, dragging him along behind her. 

The inside of Flourish and Blotts was a montage of bookshelves that brushed the unattainably high ceiling. Hermione had, of course, been here numerous times but the sheer size of it all always shocked her. She took a deep breath of the air that reeked of knowledge (which oddly enough smelled like a blend of coffee and peppermints) and set off at a very fast walk towards the sign reading "TRANSFIGURATION: Aardvarks to Alligators". He considered stopping her but then seemed to think better of it and headed off in the other direction, to a much dinger, much less polished corner labeled simply "THE DARK ARTS".

Hermione ran one finger along the books as she went, raising a cloud of dust from one very mean looking book as she passed. "aardvark… acid… addition… afterwards…" she muttered, stopping in front of a shelf labeled clearly "A. I.: Artificial Intelligence". The books on this particular shelf were shiny and new and looked as though they'd never been touched at all. She pointed at random and pulled a book entitled "Brains Where There Oughtn't Be: A Study in Soul Transference." She drew it, with all the air of a child at a candy store, off the dust-free shelf and flipped it open to somewhere in the middle. "Many instances of soul transference have been discovered as of late, resulting from the recent demise of He-who-still-must-not-be-named and yada yada yada…" She slammed it shut and slid it irritably back into its waiting space between "Speaking Without Mouths" and "Dementors to Diaries: Soul Transferences and the Dilemma of the Hollow Shell". She sighed; boring at transfiguration did seem so deathly he moment. She slipped out from behind the shelves and found herself facing a very tall magazine display with the words "ENGAGED?" in big red letters across the top. Hermione nodded as though the sign cared. The sign continued: "LUCKY YOU! YOU'LL NEED LOTS OF MAGAZINES! LOTS AND LOTS!" She pondered this for a moment and then shrugged, picking up a thin copy of "The Magical Day" and flipping through the black and white images of glowing witches in flowing white gowns that coated every page.

* * *

Draco Malfoy was bored. It had never occurred to him that one could become bored of Flourish and Blotts's dark arts section; yet there he was, bored out of his mind while poring over a picture of a muggle being tortured by a very short man in form-fitting brown robes. He shuddered and slammed the book shut. What he wanted was something interesting. Apparently, he knew everything that books could tell him. This was not surprising, considering his parentage, and so he shrugged it off and considered it another perk of being his father's son. He strolled casually out into the entrance again and spun three-hundred-and-sixty degrees before a sign with big gold writing on it caught his eye. "ROMANCE" it read. Yes, porn was most definitely what he needed. He grinned and set off towards the sign.

* * *

"One-Hundred-and-One Ways To Make Your Day Unique," Hermione read aloud, then snorted. "Yeah, it'll be real unique once all the other women who read this do it too." She scoffed, and turned the page. "Dresses for every body type… that's not so bad." She smiled, eyeing her own petite frame over the top of the page. "That's not bad at all…"

* * *

"Malfoy? Draco Malfoy?" Draco shut the issue of 'Veelas Gone Wild' he'd been perusing and held it firmly behind his back. "Yes? What?" he snapped. Last time someone had snuck up on him like that he'd nearly been hauled off to Azkaban. He sincerely hoped he'd done nothing wrong as of late. 

However, the girl he was glaring at didn't look like an Azkaban guard. In fact, there didn't seem to be a dementor in sight.

Actually, he thought he recognized her… maybe. She'd definitely gone to Hogwarts… what was her name again? Claudia? Channing? Not that he really cared; he just didn't like to be caught with his guard down. It didn't suit him.

"It's Cho," she supplied.

"I knew that," he lied. He wasn't sure why he was pretending to care, or why he was talking to her at all. She wasn't even very pretty. Then again, it's already been established that he really thoroughly had a thing for models.

"No you didn't, have you been reading porn?"

"Yes, fine, why are you talking to me again?" He quickly shoved the magazine into the closest book and glared defiantly down at her.

"Just making sure you were who I thought you were. Obviously I was right. I thought since I heard you'd been dating–."

"If I was dating you're old boyfriend it'd_ still _be none of your business."

"What?"

"You thought I'd changed cause I was dating a... someone like Hermione. Well, I haven't gone all goody-goody, thank god. 'Oh, look, it's Draco Malfoy. He's dating a mudblood. Let's go give him kisses and tell him he's our hero. He's such a rebel. Ah!' sorry to disappoint you kiddies but I've not gone all gooey and soft just cause I've got a different view on what's important. Alright?"

She didn't answer immediately, but instead stood perfectly still except for her lip, which seemed to be shaking uncontrollably.

"How d-d-d-dare you…" she sobbed, "I j-j-j-j-just th-thought tha-that–"

"Well you obviously thought wrong, now didn't you?" he turned to make a dramatic exit but instead ran into something very solid. Something that appeared to be, on further inspection, a someone who was blocking his way. "Could you move?"

"You made her cry!" the someone said. He was taller than Draco, and so it was all the more impressive when he drew himself up to his full height.

"R-r-r-roger!" she sobbed, ducking behind the big man and clutching at his shirtsleeve like a two-year-old at the mall.

"Oh come on! I didn't say anything. You're girlfriend's just weak is all, I bet she just broke a nail or something," said Draco.

"H-h-h-he said, he said I was st-st-st-stupid!" Cho wailed; Roger looked Very Angry Indeed.

* * *

"Let's see ma'am, now that'll be sixteen sickles and…" the clerk made one last calculation, "three knuts." 

Hermione carefully counted the money out on the counter and handed it over to the redheaded gentleman. "Have a nice day!" he called, as she tipped her ten magazines (two issues of "The Magical Day", one issue of "Altar a la Mode", four issues of "Star-cross'd Marriages" and three issues of "Bride to Be") and a new quill into her bag and began the search for her fiancé.

* * *

Twenty long strides away from Hermione and only two aisles away from Draco, who had set off weaving between the aisles, Roger Davies close on his tail, a woman named Sarah O'Roupe and her son, a squirmy little four-year-old named Mac, were wandering aimlessly among the aisles. Every once in awhile Mac would stop, open a book, ask what some random word said, then close the book and they'd continue on. "Mommy! What's this word say?" Mac squealed, but what the word indeed was Mac never found out because at that moment there was a deafening boom and the issue of 'Veelas Gone Wild' that Mac had found inside 'Midnight Morocco' went soaring into the air as Sarah scooped him up and bolted out of the store, screaming as a bookshelf came down right where she'd been standing an instant before.

* * *

Hermione Granger did not notice the nudie magazine that fell into her bag for a number of reasons. One reason was that her bag was already quite heavy and the extra weight didn't affect much of anything. Mostly, though, she didn't notice because at the moment it fell into her purse there was an ear-splitting scream as a woman carrying a crying little boy ran past her and then out. She was a bit bewildered by this but then there was a deafening boom, and she saw a huge bookshelf hit the floor, sending others after it in a sort of twisted domino rally. She screamed and ducked as three centuries of yearly almanacs flew past her head. 

Then everything was silent. Hermione looked up from her vantage point on the floor and saw many other people doing the same. Only one person seemed to be standing, and she'd recognize that hair anywhere, especially accompanied by the icy drawl that so eloquently confirmed what she already suspected.

"Er… sorry."

Hermione vaguely remembered someone saying "Stay away from Flourish and Blotts!"; but, she realized too late, she obviously hadn't heeded the warning.

"Come. With. Me," she hissed through clenched teeth, taking Malfoy roughly by the hand and marching across and out of Flourish and Blotts.


	9. Interlude: A Lucius Story

Disclaimer: Any character, places, events, or other things that you recognize belong to J. K. Rowling. I'm just borrowing them for a while. I'll return them whole (albeit a bit corrupted) when I'm through with them.

Chapter Dedication: Jillian, cause she'll just despise the fact that I gave her the Lucius chapter. lol. Enjoy jilly-jilly he he he

A/N: I know my Lucius is absolutely horrid. Bah. It had to be done. Also, I've replaced chapter 6, since I said they'd left eleven months ago and here I have it that they'd left three years ago. So... I fixed that.

* * *

**"It's not my sanity you should doubt... it's your safety."**

A Perfect Day to Elope

CHAPTER NINE

**In which Lucius is smug and Narcissa smears her eye-stuff...**

_Interlude: A Lucius Story_

_July 11, 2001_

The dismal interior of courtroom nine was looking, if it was possible, more dismal than usual. The stones were looking especially solid and the spider population seemed to have become noticeably larger. The cheerless room was nonetheless filled wall-to-wall with witches and wizards who were sitting on raised stone benches that rose steeply in a kind of perverse stadium seating away from the miserable floor. They were all dressed in long black robes (but that's just normal for wizards) and they were talking animatedly about something that apparently was going to be happening very soon.

Suddenly, an undistinguished door in the sidewall was flung open, throwing the crowd into a thick silence. There was a moment hesitation, and then ten judges in long, blue robes filed into the chamber, all watching the floor with grim significance.

"You are the defense of the accused?" asked the foremost judge, a portly man with thinning gray hair and beady eyes, after they had all taken their respective places.

"Yes."A dark-skinned woman sitting behind the defense table stood. She had curly, bleached blonde hair and was wearing vivid magenta robes that contrasted violently with the mass of black behind her and hung loosely on her wiry frame.

"Name?" he asked, his misgivings barely disguised behind a rumbling monotone.

"Chalondra Agatha Tee, and I joined the registry in 1987," she added before he could ask.

"Good..." He scratched out a note with his quill and then looked up at her again. "Bring him in then."

At this the air of excitement in the court practically exploded. The heavy door at the front of the court was opened with an ominous creak and a man with disheveled silver-blonde, though now it looked more like gray-blonde, hair was silhouetted silhouetted against a sudden burst of outside light.

"May it now be recorded that today, on July eleventh of the year two-thousand-and-one, the thirteenth day of the official parole hearing of Lucius Fallon Vaughn Malfoy was begun." There was a resounding bang as the gavel found its mark and the court was plunged into silence again. "Madame Magdalene, would you read the charges again, please?"

"Of course," the witch to his right chirped, unfurling a long sheet of white paper. "Thirteen counts premeditated murder, including but not limited to the murders of Fuchsia Meyers, Stanley Sterelle, Sarah Edgecombe, Maddox Freerail, and Remus Lupin," she continued reading the charges, though no- one listened, not really. Torture, murder, torture, blackmail, torture, murder, those were all things they'd seen before. Every eye in the courtroom was locked on the man under fire.

Lucius Malfoy's unkempt hair fell around a pair of cold, gray eyes and a pointed face that held the unattended shadows of Azkaban. He was walking slowly but steadily towards the center of the room, and for all that he looked beaten or unraveled he still insisted on maintaining a perfect posture.

"Two counts breaking into the ministry of magic with malicious intent, one-hundred-and-fifty counts of using an illegal unforgivable curse," Madame Magdalene read. There was a collective intake of breath from the spectators.

Lucius Malfoy sat down. Chalondra Tee sat down beside him, and another woman with wavy brown hair and a practiced white smile sat down on his right. They pretended not to notice that he was there, which was perfectly fine because he barely noticed them either. He was searching the spectators with all his senses, though his eyes were focused intently on the table in front of him. A gossiping student, a twitchy old geezer, a young woman who seemed to be breathing in the oddest way, and then he'd found it. He heard that oh-so-familiar whimper, and he almost smirked, almost. Narcissa was there; and Draco was behind her, probably. He was probably somewhere nearby, not paying attention as usual. Not that Lucius much cared that no one wanted him paroled, it simply helped to know that someone still found him terribly impressive.

"Mr. Malfoy!" Lucius snapped his head up. That excuse for a judge was talking to him now. Reverie was a dangerous business. He'd have to remember that one, it sounded exceedingly smart, a quality that pertained to very few thoughts he'd had recently. "Come to the stand."

Lucius was about to do so when, in a motion too quick to catch, the woman on his right, her freshly pressed white robes swishing angrily, shot up and shouted, "I object!"

"You are not Mr. Malfoy's lawyer, Ms. Sharpe," the judge snapped, and she glared daggers into his beady eyes.

"But I am his doctor and though I no longer question his sanity, his strength after nearly three years in Azkaban can hardly be described as fit," said Sharpe, curtly stepping around to the front of the desk. "I believe that you have questioned my charge to the extent of what his current state will allow. You have the records in front of you, it should be obvious that he is clearly no longer unstable, irrational, or insane at all. He is," she smile proudly, "completely cured." She held up her right hand. "You have my word."

The simple fact that Lucius Malfoy was sitting in a courtroom was a weighty statement in itself. He had been in Azkaban for three years; and the journey from his cell to his lawyer's elbow had been a difficult task, involving quite a hefty bit of lying and blackmail. No one needed to know that, though. It had started off on Narcissa's second visit to his cell; he had acted then, lied to his wife. Not that that hurt, much. It was nothing a quick dose of self-righteousness hadn't fixed. He had told her things, dark things, things people had told him under torture, things he pulled from his memory and coated with sop before handing them to his wide-eyed, horrified wife. She had, of course, been at her wits end. She'd filed complaints with everyone she could think of: the minister of magic, the Azkaban governors, the department of magical law enforcement, the CAC. Nothing. She'd come back. He smirked at his own genius. He'd played the insane man, the terrified child, the overbearing husband, the tortured P.O.W., the lunatic. She'd called on St. Mungo's, and that, as they say, had been that. After one-and-a-half years at St. Mungo's, after one-and-a-half years of non-stop lying Lucius Malfoy was 'cured', or as cured as he was ever going to be.

The judge seemed to think on her words for a moment. "Fine, then, have it your way," he said finally, "All in favor of letting Lucius Fallon Vaughn Malfoy go free?"

"I feel," Ms. Sharpe interjected again, "due to the circumstances and the reputation that society has built around people of Mr. Malfoy's past it ought to be a silent vote?"

"Quite right," Ms. Tee added. The head judge sighed and nodded resignedly. It was only fair, after all.

"Fine then, it will be a silent ballot, all of you right down your prescribed judgment and hand it to Madame Magdalene."

There was a furious scratching of quills against paper and then ten folded ballots were handed along to Madame Magdalene, who unfolded and read them all in an agonizingly slow manner that suggested she didn't want to know what was written on the papers.

"Well?" asked the man to her right, once she'd finished. She looked a bit as though she was going to be sick. She cleared her throat. "Er... well, we have here five votes that he be released," she choked out, speaking barely above a whisper. Lucius's heart, or rather, the cold, frozen lump of hate that he referred to as his heart sank. They weren't going to release him. They were never going to release him. He was going to rot away in Azkaban and there was nothing he could do about it, not anymore. He'd never get to have a good son, never get to be on a chocolate frog card, he'd be that relative no-one talked about anymore, a shame to the family name. _He'd gotten caught_.

"And four votes that he be returned to Azkaban..." she continued. The cold, frozen lump of hate lifted. There was still a chance. "...and one vote," Madame Magdalene continued, "one vote that he remain in St. Mungo's."

The courtroom was plunged into shocked silence, whether in awe or horror would have to be in the eye of the beholder. Lucius barely noted that Narcissa had stopped breathing before the corpulent man began to speak again.

"Well... then," he sputtered, drawing deep breaths but slowly, slowly coming back to himself. "Let it be here on known that Lucius Malfoy was released from Ministry custody on the eleventh of July, two-thousand-and-one, and that he was released on wandless parole, until an unspecified date at which time he is deemed completely readjusted."

The gavel found its mark once again and the veil of tense silence that had floated over the court like a specter shattered with the decisive bang. The shouting began like it had never stopped at all.

"LUCIUS!" He barely had time to turn around before his vision was blocked by a large quantity of blonde hair. "They let you go and they let you go and we can go home!" Narcissa sobbed, Lucius hurriedly pushed her away, keeping her close enough that he didn't look cruel to anyone looking and far enough so she'd stop sobbing all over his shoulder.

"Honestly woman, you act as though you doubted me," he drawled, quickly regaining his composure and leading her out by the elbow. "Where's Draco?" he asked, once they'd gotten into the hall and he realized his son wasn't following them.

"I don't know," Narcissa sobbed.

"What do you mean you 'don't know'? He's _your_ son!"

She sobbed even harder. "He... he l-l-l-left!" she choked out, tears running down from her eyes and smearing her eye makeup in long black rivers down her cheeks.

"Oh, stop doing that. You'll smear your eye stuff."

"How articulate Lucius."

"The insane don't have time for articulation, Narcissa. Where is my son?"

"But you're not–"

"Nine out of ten voices in my head agree that I'm sane, yes." She sobbed harder. "Oh, now really Narcissa, you know nothing is ever accomplished by a reasonable man!" he cried, throwing his hands up in exasperation. She sobbed still harder. "Fine then, Where. Is. My. Son?"

"I don't kn-kn-kn-know! I t-t-t-told you! He l-l-l-left! I d-d-d-don't know where he w-went!" she wailed, taking big gulps of air as big, blubbery tears ran down her face.

"What do you mean he 'left'? What, he ran away? He's gone on a trip? He's died!"

"He just... left," she gulped, seeming to come to herself for a moment

"What, just by himself?"

"No, he went with girl, I saw them flying away!" snapped Narcissa, very indignant now she was fit enough to be indignant at not even being asked how she might have been doing.

"Well that's nothing to worry about, probably just running off to be alone with–"

"Not Pansy!"

"What?"

"Not anyone I knew," she sniffed, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand, "Well, I did recognize her from somewhere. I just don't know where..."

"And you didn't stop them?"

"How could I?"

"Damn it! I leave for a few years and everything goes to the dogs, I bet you fired all the house-elves as well?"

"No, but what should we do about Draco?"

"He'll come back, and if he doesn't..." He shrugged. "We'll kill him."

"You're not worried we've lost him?"

"Narcissa, of all the things I've lost in life, I miss my mind the most. I'm not going to worry about losing my son as well. And don't look at me like that, you're not so unpredictable yourself."

"Perhaps, doesn't look like you'll be finding out any time soon, now does it?"


	10. CHAPTER TEN

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling and I'm unsure who the 'what is a youth?' song belongs to but it was in the Romeo and Juliet from the sixties. And you know who owns the coconut song? Fred Heatherton! He sang it in 1949. woot. Crazy stuff there.

Chapter Dedication: erm… Natyslacks. Cause she's usually the first person to review all my chappies. Yay! Even though last chapter was Xamphia, so it's for you too. Yah, I realize last chapter didn't really seem exactly pointful, but it was really just me explaining why Lucius isn't in Azkaban. Gah. Which is why I hurried up and wrote this one. : - ) love you all

* * *

**"The ABCs of ex-girlfriends:**

**…I stands for I still hate her. Odds are I always will, unless she calls me and offers me favors.**

**J stands for Jim. This is her new boyfriend. Doesn't Jim have a nice car ? Doesn't Jim have a good job? Why does Jim want to date her? I think Jim could do much better. I hate Jim. Jim is my mortal enemy.**

**K stands for Kill.**

**L is for Love. It's a great euphoric feeling that exists between two people and is shared upon by both parties.**

**L is also for Lunatic. Lunatics are crazy. Lunatics are the last people that actually believe in love…"**

A Perfect Day to Elope

CHAPTER TEN

**In which Draco listens to the Spice Girls and Pansy has a heart...**

_September 25, 2003_

"Down at the county fair, one evening I was there, I heard a barker shouting, underneath the flair..."

Hermione wrapped one hand around one of the cold metal bars that came between herself and her fiancé. She honestly wished it were more than that just then, something like a soundproof island. She once again tried jamming her fingers into her ears, but no good. He would continue to sing and she would continue to try and become comfortable on the camp bed they'd given her, though she would most likely also continue to fail at that as well. She looked blankly up at the ceiling. It was gray stone, wet from the leaking pipes she heard rushing overhead. Had she had her wand she could have easily blasted it apart _and _stunned the guards into allowing some sort of escape. Honestly, though, there would have been no point in that. She wasn't in huge trouble in any case. Draco and she would just have to sit and wait– and sing, in Draco's case– until someone came and paid the ten galleon bail for the two of them. It was nothing, but she highly doubted she knew anyone who cared enough about the two of them together to actually get out of bed and bail them out.

Ron would do it for her, and Narcissa would come and fetch him. Hell, Ginny might even do it for her; but none of them would do it for both.

"Oh! I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts, there they are all standing in a row," he sang. He had decided, upon their arrival at the ministry and after their fingerprints had been taken, that the guard who was set to watching them wasn't going to let them out any time soon. So, in true Malfoy fashion, he had taken to being as annoying as possible in the hopes that guard would chase him off, or at least give him some reason to sue. "Big ones, small ones, some the size of your head!"

"Shut up Mal-ferret! It's a jail not a bloody karaoke bar!" she shrieked for the ninth time, kicking the bars for emphasis.

"Come on Hermione! Oh! Give 'em a twist, flick of the wrist, that's what the showman said!" he continued. Hermione dared a glance over at the guard. Far from being annoyed he seemed to be rather enjoying himself. "Oi! I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts!"

"I don't even know the words you arse!" she turned back to him, and found that he'd moved around so that he was sitting as close as possible to the bars and leaning his forehead against them, so that she, being very close to the bars herself, found herself only an inch away from his leering face. She jumped back and scuttled against the wall. "Don't do that!"

"Everyone you throw will make me rich!" he crowed, a hint of laughter obstructing the words. He looked directly down at Hermione, who was now biting into her bottom lip to keep from saying some things she knew she'd regret later. "There stands me wife, the idol of my life, saying roll a bowl, a ball, a penny a pitch!"

"Not yet I'm not," she muttered. He ignored it.

"Singing roll a bowl, a ball, a penny a pitch, roll a bowl a ball, a penny, a pitch..."

"I said stop that."

"Roll a bowl a ball, roll a bowl a ball, singing, roll a bowl a ball a penny a ball a penny a ball a penny a ball a penny a pitch!" he finished, holding out the last noted until he finally had to breathe.

"Lovely." Hermione rolled her eyes and tried to make good use of his silence by laying deeper into the camp bed, which turned out to be a mistake as it was full of springs that poked into her sides.

"Comfortable?"

"Yes," she lied. He laughed.

"No, you're not." He smirked, laying down as well so that he was looking directly at the top of her head.

"I am."

"Stop lying, I'll sing again,"

"Alright then, it's like lying on a bed of rusty nails while being eaten by dull-teethed wolves," she snapped, rolling over onto her back.

"Well, you know what sarcasm gets you don't you?"

"My own personal minstrel?" she groaned.

He grinned. "Alright, Granger. Guess the song."

"I'd rather not, thanks," she said, hoping that would deter him. It did not.

"Okay…" He cleared his throat. "So, I'll tell you what I want what I really really want…"

"Dammit, Draco. Not that one, you can't _sing_ that one. Well, you can't sing period but _please_… not that one. You'll ruin it..." Hermione moaned.

"So tell me what you want what you really really want."

"You're ruining it! That's wrong!"

"I wanna huh wanna huh wanna huh wanna huh wanna really really really wanna ziggy say ah!"

"Good god, of all the men to be trapped beside. Mine likes the Spice Girls!"

"Then sing it with me, won't you?" he sang, adding notes that weren't there.

"I don't sing,"

"You don't dance e-e-e-either."

"I wouldn't dance if you didn't fo-o-orce me to," she sang back, then stopped herself. "I don't sing _often_," she corrected before he could sing anything about that.

"You know you liked it."

"What, being _dropped_?"

"Indeed."

"Where _did _you learn to dance like that?"

"That's on a need-to-know basis." He rolled onto his back.

"Oh, really."

"Yes, really."

"And, may I ask why?"

"No."

"No?"

"Granger, do you really have to know _everything_."

She thought for a moment. "If I say yes will you tell me?"

"No." He paused. " 'It's always good to have an unfulfilled goal lying on your desk… it gives you a reason to get up every morning, you lazy toe-rag.'"

"What!" She bristled, jumping at his sudden change in tone.

"That quote courtesy of Lucius Malfoy, as to why he had a very badly beaten photo of Harry Potter on his desk."

"You're trying to change the subject."

"That was my intention."

"So, _why_ does Draco Malfoy know how to salsa? And _who_ ever had the time to teach him?"

"I think I like you not knowing." She could hear his trademark smirk. "It adds to the tall, dark, mysterious… mystery that is the enigma of Draco Malfoy."

"The 'enigma of Draco Malfoy'?"

"Yes. It's a very expansive mystery, comprising everything from his current fiancé to how he learned to dance."

"His _highly desirable_ current fiancé" she interjected. He laughed.

"I suppose you intend to do this respectably?"

"Do what?"

"This whole… wedding _thing_."

"You'd what, blackmail the minister into getting us married?" He nodded vigorously. "How very _Slytherin_ of you."

"Nothing wrong with that," he snapped. She laughed.

"Of course there isn't, if there was I wouldn't be here, now would I?"

"You probably wouldn't be leaving here, either," said a voice to her left. She looked up and nearly choked at the person standing just outside her cell.

The woman standing on the other side of the bars was dressed like something out of the eighteen hundreds. She was wearing a simple gray dress with a long skirt that gathered around her lower back in a bustle. On top of a head of curly, mahogany hair she had positioned a black top hat so that it was tipped forward over her eyes, probably making it very difficult to see, but giving her a purposeful air of mystery, nonetheless. Along the front edge of the hat was a veil of black tulle that shrouded a hard-featured face.

But it wasn't the outfit so much as the woman behind the veil who interfered with Hermione's breathing.

"Pansy?" Draco tumbled off his camp bed and hit the ground with an audible _smack!_

"Draco." Pansy eyed him thoughtfully, as though torn between illness and amusement.

"Have you bailed us out then?" said Hermione, before Pansy could say anything too nasty.

"No, Granger, I've just come to visit you," Pansy snapped.

"How nice of you to, er… drop by?" Draco sneered, pushing himself onto his elbows.

"Bugger off, Draco. You weren't witty when we were dating, and you obviously haven't gained half-a-mind since," she retorted. He stopped talking. "Come on then." She sighed and swung open the entrance, turning to stride down the hall at a remarkable speed for the boots she'd stuffed her feet into. "You can't get out without me," she shouted over her shoulder, and they hastened after her.

"You did bail us out then?" said Draco. Pansy didn't reply but merely pushed him into the lift, Hermione shuffled in behind her.

"If you hate us so much…" Hermione began but Pansy interrupted—

"I don't hate _you_," she snapped, as though it were the most obvious statement in the world.

"But I'm a _muggleborn_." Hermione pointed at a vein in her wrist to show Pansy her muddy blood.

"As a person, yeah, I hate you." Pansy smiled indulgently, "but as an entity you're a bit of a boon."

"What are you _talking about_?"

"Well… him." She glared at Draco, "I despise. But that stories old news. This little 'wedding' you're planning is bound to cause the both of you great pain. I wouldn't want any bars protecting you."

"Vindictive little tart," Draco muttered.

"What was that?" Pansy chirped.

"I was just wondering how that marriage of yours was going."

She blanched. "You are to tell _no-one_ about what you saw." She turned to Hermione. "Or I may just subject you to another week of his singing."

"Atrium" said the noticeably disembodied elevator-voice. Hermione had the fleeting impression that the atrium looked abnormally crowded before someone grabbed her by the wrists and she was pulled forward to the front of a shouting mob. She realized, now, that the mob was comprised mostly of pinstripes and white flashes.

_Click, click, click…_ A whole host of shutters exploded in white-hot light and Hermione was temporarily blinded.

"Ms. Granger, Ms. Granger, is it true that you're pregnant?"

"Draco! Over here Draco! Over here, what do you have to say about rumors that you've been seeing French model Angela Levinson as well?"

"Mrs. Malfoy!"

"Hermione! What is your opinion on the DaVinci Code!"

"Malfoy! Malfoy! What do you have to say to rumors that you once were engaged to an Aborigine troll?"

"How are your parents taking it?"

"How are your friends taking it?"

"How is your dog taking it?"

"What's your favorite color?"

"Witch Weekly wants to know what you use to dye your hair!"

"Ron Weasley says he's not mad at you anymore, what do you have to say to him?"

"What is your opinion on the Riddle case?"

"What colors do you use in your kitchen!"

"Did your great-great-grandmother have a pet walrus?"

Hermione felt a firm hand suddenly intertwined in hers as her vision returned. She turned to see Draco glaring at Pansy's retreating back. Together they were clearly in no condition to apparate. "No Comment!" she screamed and ran for the nearest fireplace. She dove her hand into the silver flowerpot and threw a handful of sparkling powder onto the fire, diving into the roaring emerald flames and crying, "Haven!"

The world rushed by and Hermione's elbows banged painfully against solid brick walls. She closed her eyes and tried not to scream as she caught fleeting glimpses of darkened living rooms flying up and above her. Suddenly, she was thrown headlong out of her dizzied descent, and found herself pressed against the hardwood floor of her own foyer. She just had time enough to sit up and take in the comforting familiarity of it all before a large barn owl swooped down out of the darkness and dropped a large something on her head. She fumbled for it and then shakily unfolded the Daily Prophet.

The front page was fairly normal. The headline read something like "BALI BEATER BLUDGEONED" and there was a picture of the poor guy underneath, perfectly un-bludgeoned by the looks of it. She opened it up to the centerfold and instantly dropped the paper as though it had suddenly caught fire. There, grinning and waving up at her from beside a toothpaste ad, was her own graduation photo, five years younger but no less herself. In bold print above it, a glaring banner screamed "MALFOY MARRIES MUGGLEBORN".


	11. CHAPTER ELEVEN

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize doesn't belong to me. Anything you don't probably does.

A/N: This is the second version of this chapter. Which I think is better. The first version had a ridiculous cat fight. Which I've fixed to a much more realistic war of veiled insults.

Chapter Dedication: My wonderful mother who has sentenced me to staying home all day today, consequently allowing me to write this chapter. Gr…

**"**My mother-in-law said to me, 'I'll dance on your grave.' I said, 'I hope you do. I'm being buried at sea.'"

A Perfect Day to Elope

CHAPTER ELEVEN

**In which Narcissa throws a surprise party and Draco wants to get drunk...**

**_September 25, 2003_**

"Muggleborn witch and noted house elf liberation activist Hermione Granger was last night seen dancing with her fiancé, one Draco Malfoy, at the new Feugo Pierna latin dance club. Malfoy is the only son of famous purebloods Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Three years ago, his father, a convicted death eater, was released from Azkaban prison on wandless parole. He declined to comment on the nature of this engagement, though rumors are speculating that the reason for this sudden commitment is the soon-to-be third member of the Malfoy-Granger family. That's right, Hermione Jane Granger is– bloody hell…" Draco threw the paper across the room, where it skidded to a halt a few steps short of the dustbin. He was not having a good morning, not at all. For the third time that day he wondered aloud why he had ever thought leaving that cell would fix his problems.

Upon tumbling out of his kitchen fireplace, he had been bombarded by a pack of owls that refused to leave until he'd read and replied to each and every one of their letters, which varied from congratulations to death threats (but which had mostly been death threats). After doing so, he had thought that he could sit down and enjoy a piece of toast with some marmalade while reading the Daily Prophet. However, that hadn't gone well as he had almost instantly (just after reading up on the bludgeoned Bali beater) come across his own leering graduation photo in the center spread. That had been quite a shock.

"That's right, Hermione Jane Granger is pregnant with the newest addition to the Malfoy family," Lucius snarled, he had picked up the paper from beside the dustbin and unfolded it again. "Hermione's close friend, Harry Potter..." Lucius sneered, "also declined to comment on the situation, but his girlfriend, the beautiful Mary-Sue Lyleson, said of the couple 'Obviously there's a lot of controversy around them, but I think it's really cute. They always look really happy around each other. It's pretty sweet, really'. This author could not agree more," Lucius's lip was curled back so far it was in danger of coming around the bend and looking normal again. "Since the demise of he-who-still-must-not-be-named there has been a noticeable tension between the families of ex-death eaters and the families of those killed. Perhaps this is the first sign that the gap is closing,"

"I get it, you're pissed, you can stop now," Draco spat.

"No. you see, I can't because 'Reader's of this article might be doubtful of how long this relationship can last. Granger has run from commitment before and Malfoy is an infamous player. Said Hermione's ex-fiance's sister, one Virginia Weasley, 'When they first came out about it, no one really thought it would last. It was like a… physical thing, yeah? So we all said we'd bide our time 'til she came back to her ex-fiance, Ron,' it's been three years.' I've been getting owls in and out of my office all day, and why? Because you couldn't just marry a Parkinson and get it over with."

"You didn't _want_ me to marry a Parkinson, you said I was a Malfoy and should do better, remember?" Draco took a large bite of his toast and commenced to chew it angrily.

"And _that…_" Lucius swung the paper around and jabbed at Hermione's photo, "…is better?"

"Yes," said Draco, spreading more marmalade as defiantly as marmalade can be spread.

"Speaking of Parkinsons…" Lucius flipped the paper around and searched the article. "…your ex said something in here as well."

"I would expect as much,"

"Here we go, 'Pansy Parkinson, daughter of Emma Finch-Parkinson and Jonathan Parkinson, was very close with the Malfoy boy a few years back. When approached, she was very open about the whole affair. 'Yeah, we dated for a while. But I dumped him cause he wasn't very… er… mature, if you know what I mean. I'm not surprised he's marrying a muggleborn, especially that Granger. She was a right tart when we were in school,' how's _that_ for good publicity," Lucius drawled, throwing the paper down on the table in front of Draco again. "You're mother was in a right state."

Draco nearly choked on the piece of toast he'd been chewing. His mother had cried for weeks when he'd only gotten eight O.W.L.S.; he could only imagine what she'd do now. "Where is she?" he asked, trying to steady his voice.

"Left, an hour ago," Lucius replied, deliberately dragging out the answer.

"Where?"

"To visit your _fiance_, I believe. Something about a…" he stroked his chin thoughtfully, "bath, was it?" then added thoughtfully, "Goody, maybe she's gone to drown her."

* * *

Hermione stood up slowly, deliberately, trying not to panic even as the headline before her stayed the same. "Muggleborn Marries Malfoy," she read aloud, rolling the words around on her tongue. It was quite catchy, really. Nobody would soon forget it. A soft hoot to her right broke her train of thought and she turned back to the large barn owl. It was glaring at her in an annoyed sort of way. She quickly fumbled for her purse, grabbed a handful of tiny bronze coins and stuffed them into the pouch attached to the owl's leg. It hooted happily then flew out through her open window and into the world, where it was silhouetted against the last rays of disappearing sunlight. She watched it go and then turned back to her apartment. She suddenly became very aware that she was not alone. Perched on the arms of her couch, the molding on her doors, her lampshades, coffee table, and every available surface, a pack of owls was waiting. They were all watching her with big, unnerving, glassy eyes. She had an unnerving image of herself being attacked by a pack of annoyed owls, but she shook it off and turned to her kitchen table, which she now noticed was covered in rolls of yellowing parchment and the charred remains of howlers. "This is going to be a very interesting morning," she said to the watching owls, picking up the first likely looking letter. 

_Dear Hermione,_

CONGRATULATIONS! Oh my god! Just when I think I've got you figured out. You naughty girl! Just kidding Mione! Ha ha ha. Pregnant AND engaged to Malfoy? Oh my, now you've got me convinced you're Pansy on Polyjuice! Just kidding! Congrats! And give your FIANCE a kiss for me, just kidding again, ha ha ha.

Lavender Brown

Hermione eyed the note uncertainly. Since when did Lavender Brown call her "Mione"? Since when did Lavender Brown call her anything? She shrugged and threw the letter aside.

_Mudblood,_

_You will never be good enough for a Malfoy, or any pureblood family! If you go through with this I _will_ kill you._

You've been warned.

"That was cheery," she laid the letter down on the table and vanished it with a quick wave of her wand. "Alright, next victim,"

_Hermione,_

_Lavender's writing you but I thought I'd write too. Ditto to everything she's going to say in her letter and name the kid after me whether it's a boy or a girl!_

_Parvati_

Hermione threw that note aside as well. She shunted aside the remains of a particularly burnt-looking howler and unfolded the note beneath it.

_Hermione,_

_Congratulations. Harry told me all about the whole thing at the club. It sounds like he blew up on you pretty well. Sorry about that, he's just hurt, I guess. Did you see the article? Of course you saw the article, who hasn't by now? Too bad it had to happen like that but one might wonder when you were going to tell us. Just kidding, I know you were going to eventually. You just can't keep those things secret, Hermione, it doesn't work out very well in the end. But you'd know that, you're living it. See you soon, I expect._

_Ron_

_P.S. Don't expect a letter from Harry, he's not in a writing mood._

Hermione dropped the letter and stood up. It was nice of Ron to write, of course. She just had the nagging suspicion he wasn't kidding. "That was nice of him," she said aloud, more to herself than to the owls. "How 'bout the next one then, eh?"

_Granger,_

_I hope you get this. Narcissa Malfoy's just come by my house to pick myself and mother up for a baby shower. There's about four other girls here, so be prepared for company. We should be there in an hour._

_Pansy_

_P.S. No this does not mean I approve of you marrying above your station. I just despise him more than I despise you, and nothing good can come of this marriage. Burn this letter the instant you get it. It's supposed to be a 'surprise' party. Ick._

Yes, the world had most definitely fallen over on its ear. She looked out the window and half expected to see that the sky had turned green.

_Narcissa_.

Last time she'd seen Narcissa she'd run the other way. That couldn't have made a good impression. She'd said we. Who was _we_? Hermione jumped up and took a quick inventory of her flat. Why did she have to come just then? Last time Hermione had been home she'd been running on depression autopilot. Her pantry was flung open and cartons of half-eaten ice cream were strewn over the floor, long since melted and sitting in puddles of chocolate-fudge swirl. "_Scourgify_" she yelled automatically, flicking her wand over the length of her flat. It did help a little, the puddles of ice cream vanished, and some spots on her tablecloth disappeared, but things were still quite disorganized. "Dammit," she muttered, bending over and picking up the empty cartons, as well as three frying pans and a now-empty cereal box. She dumped them into the bin and then set to getting rid of all the owls, which proved to be a more difficult task than she'd thought.

Every one of the thirty-or-so owls had apparently been told to stick around until they got a reply. So Hermione scribbled "Thanks for your concern" onto thirty-or-so separate pieces of paper and tied one to each owl until they had all left and just in time too because the instant Pigwidgeon had flown out the window (Hermione had given him a more lengthy reply that "Thanks for your concern"), a huge purple blaze poured from her fireplace. Hermione whirled around and found herself face-to-face with her future mother-in-law.

"Hello, Narcissa." Hermione tried to smile amicably. Narcissa continued to frown.

"Hello Hester," she replied.

"Hermione," Hermione corrected, her smile straining.

"Quite right, Hester," Narcissa continued, clearly not listening as her eyes took in Hermione's flat. "We've come to throw you a baby shower!" she announced, as though the prospect wasn't enormously less preferable to marrying a basilisk.

"Oh, we?" Hermione eyed the women standing behind Narcissa. All of them were tall, thin, and very blonde.

"You're French?" said Narcissa, her eyes lighting up.

"No, you dolt. She wants to know who _we_ are," snapped the woman directly behind her, "and I don't blame her,"

"It was a joke," Narcissa sniffed resentfully and looked up at the woman, who was easily the tallest of the group. "Helen, this is Aemilia Lestrange."

"_Enchante_" Hermione replied, trying not to laugh.

"Mutual, I'm sure," Aemilia sighed, trying not to take any interest in the short brunette. She had sunny blonde hair and full red lips. She might have been very pretty; but very few people noticed her hair or lips because she had enormous purple eyes. Her eyes looked more like glittering amethysts set into her face than eyes at all.

"And this," Narcissa gestured to the girl behind Aemilia, easily the shortest of the group and clearly no older than seventeen, "is her daughter, Morrisa." Morrisa nodded. "…and next to her over there is my sister-in-law, Loyola Malfoy." She gestured at a slender, white-blonde woman standing at Morrisa's elbow. "And her daughter, Drusilla." She gestured at girl on Morrisa's other side, a girl second in height only to Aemilia and who looked startlingly like the feminine version of Hermione's own Draco, so much so that they could have been twins. "And that…" she gestured at the girl standing behind Drusilla, "is her sister, Kaida, and next to Kaida there is my mother-in-law–"

"Cordelia, but you may call me Mum," the woman who'd been eyeing Hermione's flat apprehensively up until this point snapped her gaze onto Hermione herself. From what Hermione had heard about Cordelia Malfoy, both in books and from Draco, she could hardly believe that the woman watching her with such blatant interest could be the Malfoy Matriarch herself. From what she knew about math, Hermione knew that Cordelia had to be at least seventy, though it appeared time had stopped for her the instant she turned thirty. She had the blonde hair that was, apparently, typical of all Malfoy women– though hers was a darker, more strawberry variety– high, prominent cheek bones, and full lips pursed in an infinitely perplexing simper. Though her face looked no older than thirty, and probably younger, she possessed the air of someone older than a hundred. Her almond-shaped, golden eyes hid the wisdom of seventy years on the earth; and everything from the way she carried herself to the enormous emerald brooch clipped to her hair to her flowing coral dress robes exuded royal authority.

"Hi," Hermione choked out, shrinking slightly under the taller woman's gaze. There was something familiar about that gaze, something Dumbledore-like, though Hermione would never have previously imagined equating Dumbledore with the woman who had single-handedly kept over half the ex-death eaters out of Azkaban after Voldemort's first 'demise'.

"And behind Mum," Narcissa started again, her stride bent a bit but clearly not broken, "is Emma Parkinson, and next to her is her daughter, Pansy, but you know Pansy."

Hermione nodded. "Hallo Pansy," she said calmly, though she couldn't hide the scowl that momentarily contorted her forced grin.

"And next to Pansy," Narcissa plodded on, "is my _other _sister-in-law, Rachel, she–"

"I married Lux," Rachel interrupted, "I'm his second wife, see, so by 'Malfoy code'" she said, her mellow voice dripping with contempt, "I'm not a 'legit' member of the family, and this lot won't stop reminding me of it until the day they or I die." She glared angrily around at the other women. "But if you ask me it's just cause my name's not insanely rare, I don't quite fit in well on the family tree, you know. I wouldn't worry though, _Hermione_"… she glared at Narcissa "…you're name's just weird enough, once they learn it."

"Thanks." Hermione laughed, glad to finally have something to laugh at.

Narcissa was not quite done yet, however. "And on either side of Rachel," she said, far more loudly than was really necessary, "is her step-daughter, Claudia." Claudia looked up from Hermione's telephone, which she'd been examining "…and her daughter, that is, Rachel and Lux's daughter, Lucine."

"Lucy, _please_. They will insist on _keeping_ your name insanely rare as well," Lucy snapped. She seemed to fit in with this crowd even less than Hermione or Rachel. True, she was blonde, tall, and impossibly thin, but she looked like she would be more comfortable at a rock concert than a baby shower. Her platinum blonde hair was streaked with black and it looked stiff, as though it had just been taken down from platinum-blonde and black spikes. She had heavily lidded eyes rimmed with thick, black, kohl eyeliner and a glittery silver ring in her right nostril. She didn't look like someone Hermione would want to meet in a dark alley.

"Isn't that the truth," Rachel muttered. "Shall we?"

Lucy nodded and the two of them commenced to walk around Hermione's flat, waving their wands over the length of it so that somewhat cheery-looking, if a bit deflated, decorations covered everything. The other women sufficed to help by creating large silver platters covered in hors d'oeuvres while grumbling loudly about house elves.

"Presents!" one of the girls, Hermione thought her name was K… something, squealed. Hermione noticed that all the women seemed to be holding gift-wrapped packages in varying degrees of impressiveness.

"Not a baby shower without presents," Cordelia hissed at the look on Hermione's face; and Hermione felt herself being forcefully steered into her loveseat.

"Oh, well…" she stumbled as Cordelia sat on her right side, her venom-red nails digging into Hermione's shoulder. Narcissa sat on her other side and assumed the same pose, so that Hermione felt more like a prisoner than a guest of honor.

"Open mine first," Cordelia cooed. It was a command, not a request.

"Alright." Hermione took the long, slender box that was handed to her. It wasn't wrapped, but was covered in a thick, black velvet. She hesitantly snapped open the lid, wondering how small a space an accomplished wizard could fit a basilisk into.

"It's gorgeous, but I hardly think it's appropriate for a baby." She gasped. Inside the box was a necklace, a more brilliant necklace than Hermione had ever seen. It was hung on a simple silver chain; but the jewel hanging on the chain was a sparkling explosion of diamonds arranged around a large square emerald that glowed against the box's black velvet lining. It was stunning.

Aemilia started to say something, but she was cut off by Cordelia's piercing stare.

"Oooh…" Kaida said, her awe slightly forced as Hermione lifted the necklace.

"I don't know if I have enough green to carry it…" Hermione grinned. No-one laughed. They were all watching Mum.

"Why don't you try it on then?" Cordelia's smile was manic.

"Could you help me?" Hermione handed it to her soon-to-be grandmother-in-law.

"Of course, dearest." Cordelia took the necklace, the Malfoy women held a collective breath. Hermione felt Cordelia's enamel nails brushing the nape of her neck, there was a soft click, and gravity pulled the necklace down over her heart.

"It's kind of heavy…" Hermione reached back for the clasp, which had apparently disappeared. "Where's the clasp?"

Silence pressed down on the room, a better answer than they ever could have given.

"It's not coming off, is it?"

"Of course not, dearest." Somehow, Cordelia could make 'dearest' a poisonous insult. Hermione cringed as Mum's nails bit into her shoulder. "You didn't think we'd give you any ordinary necklace, did you?"

"Oh no, of course. It had to be special somehow."

"No, this necklace won't come off until you break my grandson's heart."

Hermione saw where Cordelia was going. "So… it's never going to come off?" she said defiantly.

"Of course, if you never break his heart. But it does give you some incentive, doesn't it? It is a heavy necklace." Narcissa purred, saying more than her words might have meant.

"What a lovely present." Hermione gulped.

"If you have enough green to carry it." Pansy added.

"I can by some green dresses… shirts… pants… scarves… It really is a lovely necklace." Sheer willpower held her frozen smile.

"And when you're done with it I can have it…" Aemilia yawned.

It took a moment for the comment to sink in. Hermione bristled.

She might have told them what vindictive little wretches they were. She might have told them exactly how many Outstandings she'd gotten on her O.W.L. exams. She might have petrified them all into next week, if a blur of dust and blondeness hadn't tumbled from her fireplace just then.

"Excuse me, ladies, mother, Mum." Draco stood. "I know you've all just had _such fun_, but Hermione and I actually had dinner reservations at…" he faltered, seeing the emerald on Hermione's neck. "Oh, I see you've done presents. How 'fun'." He sneered.

"Hey Draco." Lucy waved from the floor. He gave her a confused sort of wave and then turned back to the other women. "I think what he's trying to say is," she continued before he could say anything more. "We all ought to leave so…" One-by-one she pulled each woman off of her chair or position on the floor. "Let's go. It is… after all… his dinner reservations. And you absolutely can't ever miss a dinner reservation." Her voice was dripping with sarcasm but for some reason they all followed her lead. Here was a girl who'd obviously dealt with these women all her life. One by one she shuffled them through the fireplace and to their respective homes with a cordial "It's been lovely, really…" and "See you at the wedding." Once they were all gone she turned to Hermione. "They're really not that awful… they just don't like you." She shrugged.

"Thanks Luc," Draco shouted as she followed her relatives out of Hermione's flat.

"No problem, cuz," she replied as she flew up the fireplace.

"Well, that solves that," he yawned. "Sorry about that love, they're really lovel– Granger?"

He found Hermione stroking her neck in front of the bathroom mirror.

"Yeesh, Granger. Didn't know you were the necklace type." He sneered, then added, "Stop looking so down, you'll find a way to get it off."

"I know," she replied, but didn't stop stroking the emerald.

"Then what is it? You've suddenly turned into my mother." He shuddered.

"I don't think I have enough green clothes," she said thoughtfully.

"Laugh a minute, Granger, laugh a minute." He smirked, "Now come on. We've got the _entire evening _to ourselves. Let's go out!"

"I don't much feel like going out right now, thanks." She laughed.

"Then let's stay in!" he declared, "Rent a VDV, make some popcorn, snog each other senseless."

"What?"

"You know, whatever muggles do on Friday nights."

"Well we certainly couldn't get a _DVD_, I don't have a telly."

"Right… I'll just pretend I understood the logic in that."

"You do that."

"I will." He laughed. "You need a drink, witch."

"Do I?"

"Yes," he answered decisively, then hurried off in the direction of the kitchen. "Where do you keep your wine?"

"I don't have any," she replied. There was the sound of something breakable breaking. "Fix that, would you?" She came out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, where he was looking down at the broken remains of a glass something. "For Christ's sake!" she snapped. "_Reparo_" The pieces of glass flew back into a shapely vase and she smiled smugly.

"No wine?" he asked, as though it were a new concept.

"I don't have any need. Where would I get money for booze, anyway? I own a house elf clothing store, remember? My number one and only customer is Dobby!"

"Dobby comes in every other day, though, doesn't he?" Draco teased.

"Yeah." She laughed.

"You'll be wanting me to go out and buy some wine, then?"

"Probably." She stood on tiptoe to kiss him apologetically on the cheek. "My treat."

"Yeah, alright. I'll get some muggle wine. It's better than the crap we pump out."

"Alright, but be careful, right?"

"Of course." He nodded. "So you said your treat right?" he added, pulling the spare dragon hide jacket he kept at her flat from the foyer closet.

"Right." She fumbled for her purse. "You think five pounds will be enough?"

"How should I know, I don't know muggle money." he laughed at the ridiculousness of the idea.

"Right, it should be. So you can pay for your own transportation. Just take the knight bus, right? Right."

"I'll be _fine_," he assured her. He stole one last kiss and then walked out into the hall.

* * *

Draco walked down the aisles of red and white wines. Champagne, White Zinfandel, Merlot, Bordeaux, he ran his hand down the various labels with growing excitement. He knew there was a reason he was born wealthy. His eyes lit up as he saw it, a bottle of rosy pink champagne. He picked up the blanc de noir by its bronze foiled top and carried it past the shelves of lesser wines up to the cashier. 

"That'll be four pounds and five pence," the little man declared, taking Draco's five-pound note with a grumpy sort of nod.

"Keep the change," he said decidedly, anxious to get out of the dingy store and back to Hermione. He took the bag the man handed him and slipped it into his jacket, practically running out of the store.

In fact, by the time he got outside he _was_ running. So much so that his foot caught mid-step on something decidedly solid and he tumbled forward. There was a painful crash that told him he'd landed on the wine. He sat up, picking jagged pieces of glass out of his jacket as his glorious blanc de noir ran down his shirt-front. He desperately needed to see if that was champagne or blood. He reached in his pants pocket for his wand, and found to his great displeasure that the champagne bottle wasn't the only thing that had broken when he fell. "Dammit." He spat, standing up shakily. He looked down to see what he'd tripped on, but couldn't see anything in the palpable darkness. "No wine, no wand, no muggle money, no Her–" he stopped mid-sentence. Draco might not have been the brightest crayon in the box, but he _had_ taken Muggle Studies and so he knew a gun when he felt one pressed against the back of his head. He knew the sound one made when someone prepared to fire it.

"Put your hands behind your head," said a gruff voice behind him, "and don't dare turn around."

Shit.


	12. Interlude: A Ginevra Story

Disclaimer: Any places, events, characters, etc. that you recognize belong to someone else. And 'Crazy' belongs to the infamous Ms. Britney Spears

A/N: woo, last chapter was _long. _yeah, thanks to mangopango for explaining british currency to me. ha ha ha. Yeah, I'm kind of sitting here with my britspeak dictionary on one elbow and my thesaurus on the other. Britspeak says nothing about currency though, gah! Anyway, yah, this is another interlude. Trust me, there's an actual reason behind this one, I swear. Yippee! And it's a flashback… if that's confusing at all. And yes, Ginny's first name is Ginevra, check JKRowling(dot)com if you doubt me. : - p

Horsekrazy08: It is a big one, isn't it? I looked on the site and it's 13,800. Yeah, nothing I could easily afford.

Chapter Dedication: Jewel cause she beta-ed (if that's not a word it should be) it for me and helped me make it as fantastic as possible. Thank you so so so much. Now everyone go read her story, Breaking Fate. Well, after you read this, of course…

* * *

**"Sweet is the voice of a sister in the season of sorrow." –Benjamin Disraeli**

A Perfect Day to Elope

CHAPTER TWELVE

**In which Ginny goes blonde and Ron is in denial...**

Interlude: A Ginevra Story

review by jewel-

_…Three Years Ago…_

**_September 25, 2000_**

"Perfect." Ginevra Weasley stood back and admired her work. "Does it look straight to you?" She eyed her very own Hogwarts diploma. It was hanging, glittering, pressed white, next to a signed picture of the Weird Sisters and above a tray of dirty, gray water and dirtier, grayer forks. "Kyle?"

"Wadda ya want, Gin?" Ginny's one and only employee and boyfriend, the mop-topped fry cook called Kyle, traipsed out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a wet washcloth.

"I said, does it look straight?" she repeated. He eyed the frame curiously.

"Looks good to me," he dropped the washcloth in with the forks and came up beside her. "Are you happy now?"

"Huh?" she turned away from the plaque so that she was looking him square in the face.

"Now, now we've got all… this." He gestured to the empty deli around them.

"Yeah," she sighed. _People lied,_ she decided. People were wrong; the world _was_ perfect. Her deli was perfect. Her boyfriend was perfect. Her family was perfect. Everything was just as it was supposed to be.

"We'll be taking next week off, then?" Kyle said, moving back into the kitchen.

"What for?"

"What do mean what for?" Kyle laughed, "Your _brother_ is _only_ getting married."

"I knew that," she lied. Of course, another thing that was just so blatantly perfect. Ron and Hermione, Hermione and Ron, destined to wed since the dawn of time. It all seemed…she pondered it for a moment… _too_ perfect. No, not Ron and Hermione. Everyone _knew_ they were perfect. Perfectly perfect. It was perfect. Their wedding was going to be perfect, and then their children would be perfect. It was just so damned obvious. So simple some people might even call it _romantic_.

"Gin?"

"Yeah?" she looked up from the calendar she'd been perusing.

"Mind if I leave early? 's jus' my mum's coming into town tonight, and I was thinking I'd like to be there when the Knight Bus drops her off," he added hurriedly.

"Sure, doll," she smiled, turning back to the calendar. October fifth, next Thursday, she was going to go to a wedding. She was going to be a bridesmaid. She was going to wear an enormous confection of tangerine satin that clashed horribly with her copper curls, but she was going to smile. She was going to smile because everything was going to be _perfect_.

She looked away from the calendar and turned to washing the silverware.

_Rub, rub, clink. Rub, rub, clink._

"Bye, babe! See you tomorrow!" Kyle swung past her, kissed her nose because he missed her cheek, and sped out the door.

"Bye, sweetie!" she called. The door swung shut with an audible _bang_.

_Rub, rub, clink. Rub, rub, clink._

She put down the fork she'd been scouring and shook her hands dry. Without the sounds of metal against metal to fill the noiseless air, she was suddenly very aware that she was alone. The silence pressed down on her like a wet towel; it was unnerving. She shook the feeling away and grabbed her Wizard's Wireless.

"And if you liked that," the DJ was saying, "get ready for another special treat on this magical Monday evening, September the twenty-fifth. For those of you just tuning in, in celebration of our very own Celestina Warbeck's thirtieth birthday–"

"I'm twenty-five!" shouted a woman in the background.

"–in honor of her_ thirtieth_ birthday," he continued, "we're playing all Muggle, all day, on the WWN."

"Wizard Wireless Network, oooh," sang the woman.

"Since Celestina is such an enormous fan of muggle music," he concluded, "Here it is, ladies and gents, and I'll have no more of these death threat owls!"

Ginny lifted the tray of soiled silverware off of the counter and dumped it into the sink. She flicked her wand casually at the jumble of knives and forks, and they jumped up. "I want to see myself reflected in that blade when I come back," she warned a particularly dirty knife, and the previously inanimate objects started scrubbing themselves clean. "That's right." She walked into the stainless steel kitchen and turned off the oven, which Kyle had left on again. So predictable it hurt.

She opened one of the upper cupboards (the one charmed to stay cold) and pulled out a red ice pop.

"Now here's a treat from the states," the man was saying as Ginny unwrapped the ice pop. "An artist whose debut album, _Baby One More Time_, was so over played that it leaked onto our own innocent Wizarding Wireless," there was an almost inaudible gagging noise in the background, like someone choking on a too-large tube of lip gloss, "Who's second album and song of the same name, 'Oops… I Did it Again' nearly suffocated our poor airwaves under a bombardment of syrupy sweet synthesizer. That's right, folks," Ginny rolled her eyes, "here she is. The infamous Ms. Britney Spears singing a classic hit off of her debut album. Here it is: 'Crazy'!"

Ginny sucked irritably on her ice pop. She had stopped liking that kind of music when she was eleven. Well, no one would say she had been a normal eleven-year-old, either, even by wizarding standards. There had been reasons behind the change, of course; Ginny had had plenty to rant about after her first year at Hogwarts, things pop just didn't speak to. Unlike most children, who had turned from dripping sugar pop-bops to the lesser pop-rock that a twelve-year-old might consider 'hard-core', Ginny had found solace in the heady metal guitar solos of nineteen eighties punk. No one would have, or could have, called her a normal eleven-year-old.

"Craaaaazy," the wireless sang. Ginny laughed at herself for still knowing all the words, though the song was way past her time. She glared angrily down at her hips, which would insist on swinging to the nauseating, synthesizer backup. Damn it, she was _not _going to be pulled into that. She twirled the ice pop around one finger and tried to ignore the music as she made her way back into the kitchen. She stopped herself.

"Damn it, Gin, no walking in sync with the music!" she snapped at her disobedient feet.

"Baby, I'm so into you," sang the synthesized voice, "You got that somethin', what can I do?"

Ginny started walking again.

Left, right, left, right, that wasn't so hard.

"Baby, you spin me around. The earth is movin', but I can't feel the ground,"

Left,

"Every time, you look at me,"

Right,

"My heart is jumpin', it's easy to see,"

Left,

"Lovin' you means so much more,"

Right hop,

"More than anything,"

Left slide,

"I've ever felt before,"

Ginny might have glared down at her disobedient feet, but it would have meant nothing, as said feet had already zoomed off in the direction of her private closet. Disobedient hands were already digging for the keys in her apron front while simultaneously untying said apron. She flung the apron aside in a dramatic flick of the wrist and swung her closet open, winking at some invisible audience behind her before ducking into the closet and shutting the door behind her. "You drive me crazy…" followed her through the solid wood. She waved her wand over an old, unused glove and grinned a grin shockingly reminiscent of Gred and Forge as it morphed into a dark-blonde wig.

"Ohh… Crazy, but it feels alright," she burst out of the closet, smiling at an unseen cameraman and swinging her head to the incessant pop. Suddenly, she wasn't Ginny Weasley anymore. She was hot, she was wanted, millions of people loved her and the most important thing to do was just keep shooting the video, and that was okay because she had no other responsibilities. She was fire, she was ice, she was _electric_. There was no Kyle, and that was okay because there'd never been any Kyle.

"Tell me, you're so into me." She spun down the length of her kitchen counter, then swung her legs up and over so that she was a pole dancer at the kind of exotic show she'd never been allowed to go to. She wasn't a nineteen-year-old deli owner. She was a nineteen-year-old popstar, a _brilliant_ popstar at that. She had no brothers, no sisters. She was an only child raised by her insanely rich mother and her billionaire father. She'd never had money problems. She never _would_ have money problems. She wasn't Ginevra Molly Weasley. She was _Gin: first name only, please_.

She slid down the length of the counter, knocking aside pots and pans as she shimmied along. She slid down onto her knees and twirled her legs in a fantastic fan kick Ginny Weasley would never have been capable of.

"Lovin' you means so much more, more than anything I've ever felt before!" Ron wasn't getting married in a week, neither was Hermione. That was okay, too. There'd never been a Ron, or a Hermione for that matter. She'd never have to force a smile while dressed in tangerine because _no one_ told Gin what to wear. Her brother wasn't going to leave her, ever, because she didn't have a brother; and if she did that was okay because _no one_ left Gin.

"Crazy, I just can't sleep. I'm so excited, I'm in too deep" she wouldn't ever have to waste any more of her dreams on Harry. Who _was_ Harry? She certainly didn't know anyone named Harry. If he didn't love her, that was okay, because millions of other people did.

"Crazy, but it feels alright," most of all, there was no Tom.

"Baby thinkin' of you keeps me up all night," there'd never been any Tom either. She had no logical fear of blank books; she had no fear at all. She'd never been lied to because she was _Gin_. She'd never been tricked because _no one_ tricked _Gin. _She'd never been used, abused, and then discarded like a cheap whore, because people simply didn't do that to _Gin_.

"You drive me crazy," she'd never gone to the Department of Mysteries. What _was_ the Department of Mysteries?

"Oooh, crazy but it feels alright," she'd never broken her ankle, because _Gin_ took care of her body.

"Baby, thinkin' of you keeps me up all night," she'd never gone to the Yule Ball with Neville, because there _was_ no Neville. There'd never _been_ a Neville.

"Crazy, I just can't sleep," she'd never sent an anonymous valentine. _Gin_ didn't send valentines; people sent them to _Gin_.

"I'm so excited, I'm in too deep," she'd never been pointed at in the halls. She'd never been whispered about or gaped at. She'd never been blamed because what was there to blame _Gin_ for?

"Crazy, but it feels alright," she'd never found herself covered in blood and feathers.

"Baby thinkin' of you keeps me up all night," who _was_ Tom?

"You drive me crazy baby," she'd never–

"Ginny? What the hell are you _doing?_" she fell headlong off of the counter she'd been slithering along, taking the Wizard's Wireless with her. There was a terrible crack that told her it had hit the floor and the music stopped. "Was that…"

"No," she snapped, ripping the blonde wig from her fiery red curls and glaring furiously at the intruder, "it wasn't,"

"Oh, nice wig, anyway," Ron replied dully.

"Sorry, closed," Ginny snapped irritably.

"It's okay, I was just wondering if Hermione had been in," he said, completely ignoring Ginny's tone.

"Hermione? Left you already, has she?" she teased.

"N-no…" he faltered. Ginny didn't like that falter, not at all. "Just… has she been in here?"

"Today?" Ginny sank slowly into one of her many bar stools, "I don't think I've seen her since last Tuesday, at the party. Why?"

"Well, it's just… yeah. We got in a fight, you know? and–"

"She left?" Ginny offered. He shook his head.

"No, she _didn't_ leave. See, she wanted… well it seems silly now, but she got really miffed, like she can," he got a look in his eyes as though a miffed Hermione was the most glorious creature in the world, "and we worked it out. We went to sleep, and I woke up about an hour ago because I was cold," he frowned, "and she wasn't there,"

"She probably just went to get a present and didn't want to wake you up. Hermione's nice like that,"

"Yeah," he looked doubtful, "but she usually leaves a note, you know?"

"Yeah," Ginny nodded, though she was fairly certain she didn't know.

"And… nothing. Well her camera thing was out, but she was probably just making sure it was working, right? She's really excited for the wedding,"

"I know."

"It's just… I'm worried about her, you know? There're still plenty of Death-Eaters out there. She could be in trouble, right?"

"Right," Ginny nodded.

"Say, I should probably be getting home, she's probably there, worrying about _me_," he laughed, much more than was really appropriate.

"Yeah," Ginny swallowed. She suddenly didn't want Ron to go, because bad things would happen if Ron found Hermione not there. "Say, why don't you, er… stay for a cuppa, eh?"

Ron's face suddenly contorted into a furious scowl. "She's going to be there when I get home!" he shouted.

"I-I didn't say she wasn't going to be," Ginny choked.

"Because she is, and she's probably there right now!" he grabbed a salt cellar off of the table and crushed it in his fist. "Gah!" he screamed as salt mixed with fresh-cuts and turned pain into torture.

"I know she is, Ron," she whispered. Her throat suddenly felt very tight.

"I'm going home now! I'll tell her you didn't believe me!" he cried, his eyes rimmed with angry tears. He turned to leave.

_…bad things would happen if Ron found Hermione not there…_

"Ron!" she cried, her voice choked with restrained tears. "You don't… you don't have to go…"

"Hermione is waiting for me," he whispered, his voice hoarse. He turned back to the door.

_…bad things would happen…_

She threw herself onto his back, like she had when they were kids fighting over the last chocolate bar. She was much larger now, though, than she had been when she was younger, and they both tumbled to her linoleum floor. He didn't ask why she'd done it. They both knew.

"Hermione's going to wonder why I'm so late," he said.

"She'll forgive you."

"She's going to be mad."

"She won't care, I'll tell her where you've been."

"She'll think I have another girlfriend."

"And who, may I ask, would want you?"

"I dunno."

"Me, neither."

"I reckon I better stay at the Burrow tonight."

"Yeah, probably."

"I don't think Hermione would mind."

"Yeah, probably not."

"She's not coming back, is she?" he asked. He didn't need the answer, but she considered it anyway.

"No, probably not."


	13. CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to someone, but that someone isn't me.

A/N: Another day another chapter. When last we left our favorite ferret and his thrilled fianc¨¦, he was being held at gunpoint (gasp!) and she was completely oblivious to his mortal peril. Let's see how this unfolds...

Chapter Dedication: erm... Johnny Depp! Cause... he's inspired me with a monstrous plot bunny for my next (after I finish with A Reason to Forget and this and I've written my Luna/Harry fic) story. And...­ Sarah McLachlan, cause I was listening to Mirrorball while I wrote this. Yay!

* * *

**"There is no such thing as lying; it's just different interpretations of the facts."**

A Perfect Day to Elope

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

**In which Draco has an adventure and Hermione hates orange taffeta...**

**_September 26, 2003_**

"I said don't move!" said the man with the gun. Draco hadn't.

"I didn't!" he snapped.

"I said don't talk!" the man growled.

"I..." Draco stopped himself as he felt cold metal pressed harder against his neck.

"Don't!" the man shouted. "Now empty your pockets!"

"You said don't move!"

"Right..." the man paused, "then, where's your money?"

"I haven't _got_ any muggle money," he retorted.

"Oh, so you're money's too good for me, eh? For someone on the receiving end of any shot I fire you're not acting too bright."

"I told you, I haven't _got_ any money." He sighed. The man swore violently.

"Then... er... empty your pockets!" he commanded.

"You said-"

"I know what I god damn said! Just... do it!" the man spat. Draco hesitantly lowered his hands. He momentarily thought about wrestling the gun from his attacker; but as brute strength went he knew well enough that he'd lose to just about everyone. He reached first into his right jacket pocket, where he had put his fare for the ride home. He pulled out all the sickles inside and dropped them silently into the man's outstretched hands.

"These real silver?" the man asked warily.

"No, I just carry around shiny gray coins. I'm a magpie!" Draco snapped, the man shook his gun menacingly. Draco got the message and reached into his right pants pocket, where he was keeping a spare galleon, just in case. He pulled out the gold coin and dropped it into the man's waiting palm.

"This real, too?" the man asked again. Draco nodded, the gun was still pointed menacingly at his neck. "Go on, the other ones now!" He reached into his other pocket, where the remnants of his broken wand were still sitting. "What's that, a broken stick?" the man laughed.

"Yeah, it's er... sentimental," Draco lied. The man tossed it over his shoulder with an annoyed grunt.

"The other one, now," he snarled.

"I don't have any more," Draco snapped, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"The other jacket pocket, and no more of this lying, understand?" the man barked.

"Oh...­that one." He swallowed, cursing his own stupidity.

"Yeah, that one," the man mimicked. "Do it!"

"Right." He slowly reached into the pocket and drew out a crumpled piece of paper.

"What's that?" The man eyed the paper curiously.

"Nothing...­ just my-" The man snatched it away. "grocery list...­" The man unfolded the photo.

"This is how you keep track of your groceries, eh?" The man laughed, a sadistic laugh. "Pretty looking list."

Draco's hand was itching to slap the man, and his gun, into the next millennium. "She's my­ sister, alright?" he lied. He could see the photo in his head; worn from being folded and unfolded so many times.

"If that's how it is in your family, then." The man laughed. "I'm not here to pass judgment."

It was a photo of Hermione, a photo she despised. It was three-years-old and he'd taken it on her muggle camera because he'd left his in the hotel. She had fallen asleep on the beach. Her wide white sun hat fell over her eyes and her hair was spread out on the sand behind her. She was wearing the bikini he'd bought her. It was the only time she'd ever worn it, though he'd never understood why. She looked amazing in it. She'd fallen asleep on the beach in her white ensemble and he'd taken the black and white photo. She'd ordered him to destroy it after she'd had the film developed; but he'd saved it instead, convincing himself he was saving it for blackmail purposes only.

"Just..." Draco clenched his jaw-line into an annoyed right angle. "give it back."

"I don't think I will," the man snarled, "I think I'll keep your 'sister' in a pretty little frame by my bed. I think I'll have some, er...­ dreams about her and there's nothing you can do about it."

Draco took a deep breath. _One...­ he has a gun, two...­ he has a gun, three... he has a gun..._The man cocked the gun again. "Now, er... let's see how lucky you are, eh?"

"If you're going to shoot me just do it. I've met much worse villains than you," Draco snapped.

"No, I'm not going to shoot you," said the man, clearly of the opinion that he was being kind. "You'll have a harder time getting home if you're alive."

Draco suddenly had the striking notion that somewhere in the world Hermione was still sitting in her flat; and she had no idea what kind of trouble her wine had gotten into.

* * *

Hermione wondered what kind of trouble her wine had gotten into. Normally, if she was ambiguous enough to give Draco the notion he'd be getting sex, he'd be back within ten minutes. It had been two hours.

She shook off the lingering shadow of worry and returned to her paper.

She'd spread the _Daily Prophet_ out in front of her again and seated herself, cross-legged, before her fireplace. She had, after a few moments of disturbed glaring, turned away from the center spread and immersed all her conscious on an article about the Gringotts goblins, as mistreated as she was convinced they were.

The goblin Snorgak said Wednesday that the goblins were "quite 

But she never got to find out that the goblins were horribly abused because at that moment there was a shrill ringing from her kitchen. She jumped up and leapt at her rotary phone. She kept the phone for her parents (who still had not figured out owl post), but still they only called in emergencies. She'd given the number to Harry- Ron's previous experience with a telephone had left him scarred- but he'd never called. She'd given the number to Draco, in case of emergency, but she doubted he knew what a phone was, let alone how to use one. Still, two hours was a very long time...

"Hello?" she gasped into the receiver.

"'Mione?" said the voice on the other end.

"Hey, mum." She rolled her eyes and sank into a seat at the kitchen counter.

Mrs. Rebecca Laurence-Granger said something along the lines of "Hi sweetie," before they lapsed into the dull kind of conversation that's sure to go on between a mother and her twenty-three-year-old daughter.

"So." Hermione tried to sound like she was grinning. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Mrs. Laurence-Granger answered, perhaps a bit too quickly.

"Mum, it's one in the morning. What's wrong?"

Rebecca sighed. She muttered something that distinctly sounded like "Know-it-all."

"What was that?"

"Nothing, again." She laughed. "Now, about why I was calling. Yes...­"

"Yes?"

"Well, this woman from that newspaper, what was it? The Daily Fortune?"

"_Daily Prophet_, mum."

"Right." Hermione recognized the sound of a newspaper being unfolded on the other end.

"So?" she prompted.

"So what?" Mrs. Granger muttered, her mind zooming off to bigger, better things.

"So, this woman from the _Prophet_! What'd she say?"

"Oh, right!" Rebecca cleared her throat. "Well, she asked if I'd like to be interviewed... about you."

"And?" Hermione had begun twisting and untwisting an unused towel in her hands, wringing it like a particularly deceitful rat.

"And I was wondering if anything was wrong," Mrs. Granger concluded. "So?"

"So what?" Hermione dropped the towel.

"So..." Hermione could hear her mother bursting at the seams. "So when were you gonna tell us! And don't even act ignorant young lady." Hermione snapped her mouth shut, "You got yourself into this engagement mess, again. You can get yourself out."

"Mess?" Hermione tried to act offended. It didn't work very well. "Since when have I _ever_ gotten in a mess I couldn't handle?"

"Since the instant you left that... what was his name again?"

"Stop being daft mum, you know Ron's name," Hermione snapped.

"Ron was it? Okay, excuse an old lady."

"You're not that old, mum. Just, stop talking." There was a sizable pause. "Okay, you can talk now."

"Good, I was thinking you'd just stop me talking until after you'd gone and got married!"

"Don't be silly. I need you to dress all my bridesmaids in hideous orange taffeta again. Couldn't do it myself, could I?"

"Silk, darling," her mother corrected, adopting a pre-Madonna accent that suited her like orange taffeta suits... anyone, really. "And it was tangerine, not orange. Orange _would_ be terrible."

"Well, we'll never find out, will we?"

"And why the hell not?"

"I'm not _having_ bridesmaids, am I?"

"Again: and why the hell not?"

"Who the hell would _be_ my bridesmaids? In case you haven't noticed, my last set isn't really in a Hermione celebrating mood." Hermione flicked her wand in the general direction of an upper cabinet and a nice sparkly glass flew down into her hand.

"What about Jeanie?"

"Jeanie? She's not...she's so... no."

"She's your _sister_."

"She's so _immature_."

"Do you remember what you were like when you were seventeen?"

"Don't remind me." She filled the glass with another flick.

"Exactly. Maybe someday, when you're a big twenty-eight-year-old, and she's twenty-three, she'll complain about when she was seventeen."

"And I'll be sniping about what a prat I was at twenty-three. Three cheers, mum."

"No need for sarcasm." Mrs. Granger sounded hurt.

"Fine, alright. Jeanie, that's one. Who _else_ will wear orange taffeta?"

"Silk, dear."

"Right."

"What about that Ginny girl?"

"I think she was more pissed than Ron."

"Too bad. She was nice. Are you sure? After three years, lots of things change...­" She sounded doubtful.

Hermione took a thoughtful sip from her glass. "Don't I know it. Three years ago, let's see...­" She walked over to and leaned against the wall. "I was engaged." She counted off on one of her fingers. "I was forced into having bridesmaids." She counted off her middle finger. "I was in love, Harry was pissed, and I had made a habit out of snogging Draco Malfoy." She stared down at her hand. "Not a lot's changed, mum."

"Except you're _pregnant _this time, which we haven't even discussed!" Hermione dropped the glass she'd been holding. She noticed, but didn't care much. All her attention was on the phone pressed to the side of her face. "Hermione?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm here," she replied, trying to steady her voice.

"So?"

"So what?" said Hermione.

"You! Pregnant! Baby! Grandparents want to know!" Rebecca squealed.

"Alright...­ fine. I'll tell you all about it. But mum, you ought to know, there is no baby."

* * *

Another city bus rolled by. Another pair of headlights cast a flickering glow onto another dusty sidewalk and another intimidating figure. The headlights marked him out, a stark shadow against walls of white. There was something poetic about the way he carried himself, some kind of ruined regality that a bus-riding man named Owen Rose, a poet, took note of.

Draco Malfoy had about as much idea of Owen Rose as he had of where he was. He knew that he was a few blocks westor was it east?of the liquor shop, but where the liquor shop was, or had been, he hadn't the slightest idea. He hadn't the slightest idea what one might do in these situations, and as it was he had no money to buy the information off of anyone. No one helped poor people. Or at least, _he_ certainly never did.

The bus moved on and the world was once again plunged into darkness. Shapes grew out of the dark. Shadows became the nighttime hues of dark and darker. Dark matter melted into trashcans, beer bottles, and an unwelcoming alley. He turned his eyes on a raised metal street sign. "Spinelli and Honder," he read, then added, as sarcasm took over, "that helps."

He wondered what time it was. He wondered where he was. He wondered how long it took for a person to starve to death. He wondered how long it would be until sunrise.

"I could be pretty intimidating if I had a gun," he muttered. "I could be pretty intimidating if I had a wand."

He considered walking a bit further, but for what? His feet hurt, his stomach was of the opinion it ought to be filled, and his...­ suffice to say he missed Hermione. There was no point in moving, at all.

Then again...­ on that note there was really no point in standing still, either.

"But," he remarked to no one in particular, "if I'm moving I can at least _pretend_ I'm heading in the right direction...­"

* * *

"Platoon to Mermaids? How's it goin'?" 

Officer Joseph Corelli's wife had just left him. This was not why he was at work when most people were sleeping, that was his job; but the fact still did nothing to improve his mood.

"Mermaids to Platoon, peaceful here. You?" came the crackly reply

"Unusually peaceful..." he noted, as though determined to find a fault in the crimeless evening.

He'd never been a handsome man. Standing a good head shorter than every other man on the force and once described as an "ass-wiping bastard", Joseph Correli was a connoisseur of the strip tease. That was why his wife had left him, though he didn't know it at the moment. That little detail would be revealed in a future court case.

Officer Correli highly suspected his wife of cheating on him. Her best guy friend was a man named Alfonso deGuara. Alfonso deGuara was a man who acted, in Corelli's own words, "a bit queer, really." Alfonso deGuara liked to wear leather, lots and lots of leather. It was one of the reasons that women found him so attractive. It was also one of the reasons that Corelli despised him so. Alfonso deGuara was also very fond of smoking, gay bars, and Egyptology; but really it was the leather that did him in in Corelli's book. Officer Joseph Corelli wouldn't put it past Alfonso deGuara to steal other men's wives.

So, when a man dressed mostly in leather ran out in front of Officer Corelli's car, Officer Corelli was fairly certain Alfonso was acting on some half-baked scheme to kill him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!" he screamed, swinging his door open and rounding on the leather-clad man.

"Walking, obviously!" the man snapped.

Officer Corelli stopped himself... this man was not Alfonso. This man wasn't even Latin. "What're you..." he swept his eyes over the stranger, "what're you doing out so late, eh?"

"Walking, obviously!" the white-blonde man repeated.

"Drunk, clearly." Officer Corelli mentally patted himself on the back. That was some quick thinking.

"So?" the man drawled, looking very bored.

"So...­" Corelli pondered, an act which always made his head hurt. "So I'm gonna have to take you in. That's what!" He nodded smugly. Nice work Corelli.

* * *

"Really men, twice in one day this is..." It suddenly struck Draco, more like a well aimed brick than a realization, that he hadn't slept for forty-eight hours. It also struck him that this was wholly Pansy's fault, her being such a Slytherin and all. Not that there was anything wrong with that. 

"Twice, you say?" the short man looked up from the files he'd been perusing. "Where was it you were arrested earlier today?"

"Dunno," Draco stated simply, examining his cuticles with a critical eye.

"Liar," the short man scoffed. He'd told Draco his nameOfficer Capelli, or somethingbut Draco had just as quickly forgotten it. They were muggles, some kind of law enforcement... something, not worth his time.

"My girffian… my wife is waiting for me!" he whined, deciding exaggeration was, as usual, the best way out of a bad situation.

"Don't I know that situation…" the short man muttered. The bigger one chuckled.

"But she's going to _kill_ me!" He pretend to cower at the very thought, though the idea of a flustered Hermione did nothing but get him all hot and bothered.

"So?" the little man grinned, Draco was really starting to dislike him. "How's your marriage different than anyone else's?

"Well…" _We're wizards!_ his subconscious screamed. "Well… we met in school and…" Good, storytelling. Draco could do storytelling. "Well, I'd seen her around a couple of times, but we didn't really talk. I mean, I knew she was the top wi—_student_" he corrected himself, "in our year, but she looked pretty snobby everytime I saw her so…" He paused, checking that he had their attention.

"So?" The big one was leaning forward and the small one, though pretending to be immersed in paperwork, was reading it upside down.

"So..." Draco picked his memory. "So there was this guy at our school, a real wimpy type, you know the kind. So this kid and I despised eachother, long-standing argument, you know?" They nodded. "He was a real prat anyway. So she was dating this guy and"

"Oh, it's one of _those_ stories" the runt groaned, shaking his head.

"It's gets better!" Draco snapped. "So anyway, she was dating this guy and they were 'so in love', or something. So one day..."

* * *

Hermione brought her knees up to her chin and stared intently into her fireplace. 

He was just being slow, she was sure of it. Nothing could have gone wrong, she didn't think she could take it if he got _arrested_... or something.

She had a sudden image of Draco locked in a muggle prison, trying to barter his way out with some kind of sympathy story.

"He'll survive." She yawned and let her eyelids droop. She could just take a _little_ nap, there was no harm in...

* * *

Hermione's eyelids fluttered open, revealing a rolling, blood red sky overhead. She blinked and sat up. 

She was sitting on a beach. The sand was snow white and it seemed to curve off into the distance of infinity as she watched, a deep red sea rolling over the edges, defining them in shades of crimson fire. She'd seen this beach before; but she couldn't quite place where.

_I must have been dreaming_... she mused, still trying to place the mysterious beach. _Right... that's it._

She absently ran her hands through her hair, yawning deeply as she did so. She wiped her hands off on her dress, a puffy white wedding gown sort-of thing, and gasped in horror as she realized her hands were covered in molasses. She tentatively reached up to her hair, finding it, too, covered in the sticky sweetener. She was about to ponder this when a small voice beside her squeaked "Mistress does not like Winky's dress?"

She looked down. Winky the house elf was standing beside her, clad in an identical dress that dwarfed her small figure. She grinned. "It's lovely Winky. I'm just wondering"

Suddenly, Winky let out an ear-piercing scream and plunged headlong down the beach, tripping over the overly-large dress as she went.

"Winky?" she called, but the elf was already gone.

"Elves..." someone behind her snarled, "who needs them anyway?" She turned around as slowly as possible, putting as much time between the here and the there. The there being the time when she'd have to face Cordelia Malfoy.

"Evening, Mum," she squeaked. Damn it... so much for standing her ground.

"Evening, Hermione." Cordelia grinned. "Come, we're going to be late."

"Late?" Hermione asked. Suddenly, she noticed the people standing behind Cordelia, more like a white-blonde mob than a family gathering at all.

"For your wedding!" Mum grinned, "Come on!"

"I dont..." Hermione choked, backing away until she hit something very solid.

"_Hoot_!" She whirled around to face the obstruction. "Ron! Help!" The tiny owl seated on Ron's shoulder hooted indignantly. "Hi, Pig," she mumbled.

* * *

"Hi, Pig..." Hermione's eyes fluttered open. She sighed. It had only been a dream. "_Hoot!_" 

She looked up and into a pair of interested brown eyes. "I already said 'hi, Pig'!" she sighed, taking a quick glance at the sky outside her window. It was still dark. Apparently she wasn't the only witchor wizardwho couldn't sleep. "Give it here, then." She sighed and unrolled the short strip of parchment tied to Pig's outstretched leg, instantly recognizing the loopy black cursive. "Ginny..."

* * *

"Stop! Stop! That's her flat!" Draco was thrown forward as the police car came to a lurching halt. 

"You're sure?" said the big officer, eyeing the dilapidated building suspiciously.

"Yeah..." Draco's eyes traveled up to the second story, "I'd recognize that window anywhere."

"Good luck!" The short one waved from the front seat as Draco stumbled out of the back.

"Hope your daughter's leg feels better!" the short one called. Draco grinned at his own lie.

"So do I!" He waved one last time and turned to the front door, praying that it was open. It was. He sighed with relief as the door swung open under his hand, revealing a ghostly art gallery, bald mannequins grinning down at him from raised, velvet platforms. Unnerving.

He passed through as quickly as possible, tip-toeing past statues that wouldn't hear him even if they did have ears. He paused at the door to her stairs, grabbing a bouquet from an artsy-looking vase before making his way up the rickety, claustrophic steps.

"Hello?" he called as her front door creaked open, silently thanking her for being so damned trusting. "Granger?"

He found her in her bedroom, sleeping even as he laid the bouquet on the pillow beside her. He pocketed her note, a list beginning with "Hey slowpoke" and ending with "Wedding shower tomorrow at Ginny's. Look nice." He didn't understand how she could even consider attending this wedding shower, when her baby shower, however phony, had been such a disaster. Oh well, that's why she was a Gryffindor.

* * *

"Malfoy Manor!" Draco shouted as green flames enveloped him and he fell, cascading down through the fabric of the wizarding world. Darkened living rooms rushed past even as he tumbled through his own grate, landing face-first on his own bedroom carpet. 

"There he is!" someone in his darkened corner whispered. "Get him!"


	14. CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize does not belong to me. However, though I've stolen Brini's name from a TV character, I do own the stripper, though if you wanna borrow her that's fine.

A/N: I think this chapter, though I'm gonna keep the story rated PG-13, this chapter is rated R. That doesn't mean I'm gonna tell those of you under 18 to not read it, I'm just gonna tell you that there _is_ a stripping stripper in this chapter, and a mention of oral sex (though nothing is shown, sorry. hehehe). So if either of these things make you squeamish or if your parents are reading over your shoulder you might not want to read this just now.

_**Chapter Dedication:** Brini Maxwell, the Martha Stewart of drag, whose show fascinates me for reasons unknown. Best drag queen I've ever seen, my friends and I argued for months over Ms. Maxwell's gender until one of us thought to look it up._

Last time on "A Perfect Day to Elope":

Malfoy had successfully escaped certain doom but was without wand.

Ginny had invited Hermione and Draco to a wedding shower.

Someone in the darkened corner of Draco's bedroom had just said "There he is. Get him!"

* * *

**"Bachelor... **

**A guy who has avoided the opportunity to make some woman miserable.  
A guy who is footloose and fiancee-free.  
A man who every morning comes to work from a different direction.  
A man who never makes the same mistake once.  
A nice guy who has cheated some nice girl out of her alimony.  
A person who believes in life, liberty, and the happiness of pursuit.  
A selfish guy who has cheated some woman out of a divorce.  
The only kind of man who has never told his wife a lie."**

A Perfect Day to Elope

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

**In which Ron and Harry are very drunk and Draco gives up...**

_September 26, 2003_

"What the he" Draco started, but, before he could finish saying 'What the hell do you bloody wankers think you're doing!' something fuzzy and decidedly sock-like was jammed into his mouth, muffling the consequent stream of swears.

_"Petrificus totalus!"_ one of his captors muttered and Draco, who was still lying on the ground, froze, every muscle in his body tensed in petrifaction.

"Let's go, eh?" a deep voice (clearly disguised) asked.

_Great_ Draco thought, _someone with a voice I'd recognize. Someone I know._

Two strong sets of four determined hands gripped him around his shoulders and ankles and lifted him off the ground so that, with a sickening jolt, he watched his beloved shag carpeting falling away below him.

_Everyone I know hates me, damn it._

As one they lurched forwards and with a tremendous pop and a blinding flash his room fell away, replaced with what, at first glance, appeared to be an overly large sty. There was a lumpy couch on one wall and a crumbling wall that Draco supposed was blocking out some sort of outside, along with a flickering TV screen and a large, low, square table that filled up most of the room.

At second glance it was revealed to be a bar, the sign above the door was advertising "Big Bubba's Binge and Beer Bar". The alliteration was as sickening as it was intriguing, which was probably what 'Big Bubba' was going for.

"Are you sure Bubba will let us do this here?" one of his kidnappers whispered, forgetting to disguise his voice and so allowing Draco a painfully familiar image of who his two kidnappers were.

_Yeah,_ he sighed inwardly, _I'm as good as dead_.

"Yeah, I paid him well enough," the other replied. Draco might have shuddered had he been able to move.

_Definitely dead._

"If your sure…" the first one loosened his grip on Draco's shoulders. "_Finite Incantato_"

Draco's muscles de-tensed with a painful crack and he was dropped onto the ground, which was really just a dirt floor covered in peanut shells and shards of glass. He was up again in a flash, pulling the gag from his mouth and spitting out a hefty ball of yarn-fluff. "What the hell do you bloody wankers think you're doing!" he snapped, finishing the sentence he'd started earlier.

Harry Potter and Ron Weasley looked dumbfounded, and slightly insulted.

"We're throwing you a stag party, aren't we?" Harry shrugged, gesturing at the bar for emphasis.

"Huh?"

"We got you a stripper!" Ron nodded.

"And beer!" Harry gestured at the bar again.

Seeing as they were both clearly drunk and so no harm to him, and as he was convinced he'd get a better party later, from whoever his best man was going to be, Draco decided to go along with it. It was a lot like deciding to fall down the stairs.

* * *

"Okay, there's the beer..." Yet another keg of Judoa combination of firewhiskey, butterbeer, and some sort of muggle beerlanded (with a certain amount of spillage) on the long, square table. 

"Righto." Draco grabbed another plastic cup and (with another certain amount of spillage) filled it. "To hideous plaid couches!" he raised the glass and downed the lot. They had got past saying "To Hermione!" three hours ago, "To Me!" Two hours and fifteen minutes ago, "To Alcohol!" Exactly an hour and a half-ago, and "To pineapple pizza!" exactly fifteen minutes previous. Since then they had been toasting plaid couches, highlighter-yellow high-tops, and (in Draco's case) red, snakeskin pants.

"To highlighter-yellow high-tops!" Ron cheered, taking a swig from his empty glass.

"To Hermione!" Draco cheered, having gone fully around the bend.

"To Hermione!" Ron toasted, and they downed another two glasses of Judo.

"To alcohol!" Harry grinned.

"Indeed!" Draco downed another shot and then leaned back. "indeed… where was that stripper again?"

"Stripper!" Ron jumped forward, seeming to remember something. He and Harry shared a knowing glance and then he hollered "Brini!" There was a long silence wherein nothing happened. "Brini! Dammit! Come strip for us!"

"I'm getting dressed!" an unnaturally high, decidedly feminine, voice called from behind a side door.

"Dammit, Brini! We want to see you _undressed_!" Harry called.

"I have to have something to take off don't I?" Had anyone been paying attention they could have heard her rolling her eyes.

"You were ready an hour ago!" Ron snapped. "Women…" he sighed, "Come on B! You really only need the knickers anyway!"

She didn't answer. Instead, there was a resounding pop and, with what she clearly thought was a dramatic flourish, an overly-thin, pale woman appeared on the low table. She froze, crossing her arms across an ill-covered chest. "Don't I get no music or nothing?" she frowned.

Ron shook his head no.

She muttered something that sounded distinctly like "_cheap bastards_," drawing a wand from masses of teased blonde hair. She flicked it lazily and a cracking jukebox started buzzing. With a lazy fart it began playing something reminiscent of the sixties, though the lyrics were indistinguishable through a mask of static obscurity.

"That'll do, just, _come on_!" Harry pointed at the table. Brini looked blatantly offended, but she hurried to do a tiny pirouette and then turn to them with what she apparently thought was a Marilyn Monroe look but, in the end, came across more Martha Stewart.

"Alright…" She grinned. "Whose the lucky groom!" she squealed behind a plastered, perky smile.

"You know that already! Get on with it!" Ron downed another shot of Judo.

"It's part of the bloody act, alright?" She took a deep breath and then started again. "Alright, you all know the game. Go at it then, if that's what you want."

"_Accio shirt!_" Harry said, catching her T-shirt as, with a blatantly fake squeal, it was ripped off of her, revealing an oddly thick pink bra. Had Draco been sober he might have wondered that anyone could react so casually to a top-less woman. As it was, he was drunk off his ass.

"_Accio skirt_!" Ron yawned. He didn't bother to catch it.

"Lap dance!" Draco declared, ignoring the fact that it was his turn to further strip their stripper.

"I'll do you one better." Brini grinned. With another echoing pop she had apparated onto his lap, "and I'll actually try cause you're kind of cute." She swung her legs up onto his shoulders, a bit clumsily but once again, he was drunk (and so was she, probably) and so didn't really care. "Like strawberries?" she whispered, her voice still unnaturally high and her breath faltering a bit from the effort of pushing herself into a sitting position. She swallowed. "They're called edible knickers." She laughed at the look on his face and then nodded.

Somewhere in his subconscious, an echo of a memory was screaming "_edible panties are a bad idea, you got that, bad! Bad bad bad idea!_"

Close at hand, Harry and Ron were chanting "Eat! Eat! Eat! Eat!", drowning out his screaming memory.

What else could he do? He ate.

* * *

**End note:** Alright, it probably seems a bit odd that Harry and Ron are throwing Draco, of all people, a bachelor party. Don't worry, their reasoning will be explained next chapter.I've also been told that it's getting a bit monotonous with bad things always happening to Draco and then ending with a cliffie. I hope that wasn't a cliffie, but I swear, next chapter is a Harry interlude (aren't you just excited?) and then after that it's two chapters of bad things happening to 'Mione. So don't worry. 


	15. Interlude: A Harry Story

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize does not belong to me.

A/N: I'm just gonna say one thing, so it won't take so long. Alright, so, although Mary Sue's name is a homage/parody/joke for all you who know what a Mary Sue is, I've tried not to make her one. This isn't a fanfiction parody or anything, I just thought it was funny.

Chapter Dedication: Everyone who reviewed last chappie.

* * *

**"See these eyes so green  
I can stare for a thousand years  
Colder than the moon  
It's been so long**

**Feel my blood enraged  
It's just the fear of losing you  
Don't you know my name  
Well, you been so long**

**And I've been putting out fire  
With gasoline…"-**

**David Bowie, _Cat People (Putting Out the Fires)_**

A Perfect Day to Elope

_Interlude: A Harry Story_

**In which Ron provides the beer and Harry wears women's clothing...**

_**September 26, 2003**_

**_...A few hours previous..._**

A riotous explosion of red fire. A sudden wave of heat plows him over, twisting metal walls into melting silver sculptures as it sweeps past. An echoing, belated bang. Palpable Silence.

Darkness.

Silence.

A piercing wail, like a misguided radio, drunk on its own, incoherent static.

A flashing white light.

_blink._

_blink._

Someone screaming. Two people scream and scream and scream...

His forehead, numbed by the dull, incessant pain.

The walls melt away, shattering on the stone floor.

Nothing.

Darkness.

Silence.

Darkness.

He hears himself breathing. He's alive, which means...

He's not alone.

Details. A shallow breathing to his right.

He turns to see him... the boy. He doesn't know how he got there. He just is. He doesn't think on it.

He stands, shaky. He lifts the boy, astonishingly light.

He leaves, followed by a dull beeping.

_...beep beep beep beep..._

Harry Potter opened his eyes, slapping his alarm clock down into a mess on the floor. "One o'clock, lard ass!" it screamed. He groaned. He'd slept in... again.

He needed to get up. He knew that, his body just wasn't obeying. He pushed himself up and, with a tremendous "_oof_!", managed to swing legs over and onto the cold, wooden floor.

With a startled jump he caught his reflection, staring back at him from an enormous, rectangular mirror, Mary Sue's idea. He took a mental note to move it when he got home. He made a foolish attempt to fix his hair, instinctively pushing it down over his scar-less forehead. For the four-thousand-three-hundred-and-eighty-sixth time he ran a perplexed finger over the blank skin over his right eye.

After the 'Final Battle' (as the _Prophet_ had dubbed his final duel with Voldemort), no one had been able to explain his missing scar. There had been theories, naturally. There would always be theories. He still couldn't say exactly what had happened and...

A sneaky, salon-bronzed arm snaked over his shoulders, followed by a sleepy, brown-haired head.

"Where do you think you're going?" Mary yawned.

"Work..." He pushed her arm aside.

"It's not even morning yet..." she murmured, dozing off again.

He looked out the window, she was right. It was still dark. He made a mental note to buy a new alarm clock... after he'd moved the mirror.

"Come back to bed..."

He jumped; he had thought she was sleeping.

"Please?"

"Sure..." He swallowed and stood. "I think I'll just... get a glass of water first."

"Alright." She yawned. He waited a moment before her breathing sank back into the rhythmic ins-and-outs of sleep, and then stumbled out into the hall, pulling a wayward T-shirt over his head as he went.

He didn't even bother going into the kitchen. There was, as far as he was concerned, no point in pretending he wanted a glass of water. He wanted a walk. He pulled a jacket over his shoulders, not bothering to check if it was his or Mary Sue's. It didn't matter.

Once outside, he dearly wished he'd thought to put some pants on over his boxers. It was frigid. But, however cold it might have been, it was also completely, utterly silent. That was how Harry liked it. That was why he was outside at one in the morning, walking, absorbing the silence. He set off down the street.

His footsteps echoed ahead of him, reverberating in unheeded warnings of shadows lurking up ahead. He pressed on, his problems stripped away by a fresh wind and the palpable darkness smothering him even as he stopped to catch his breath.

He'd been thinking about _them_ a lot lately. He stopped. He shouldn't have felt guilty. He shouldn't be concerned in_ their_ affairs. After all, it wasn't _his_ fault if they wanted to scream their business in crowded dance clubs. It wasn't his fault they'd been overheard. He shouldn't have felt guilty; but he did.

He shouldn't have felt guilty about Hermione leaving Ron. That wasn't his fault. True, he supposed he might have been more attentive. He might have picked up on her behavior. On _his_ behavior. But he hadn't. No one had. He shouldn't have felt guilty. He did.

He shouldn't have felt guilty about Lupin dying. He couldn't have prevented that. The hero inside him disagreed. _He could do anything._

He shouldn't have felt guilty about forgetting Mary Sue's birthday. Well... that _was_ his fault.

He shouldn't have felt guilty about _Tom_. Certainly, no one blamed him for that. That's what made it so terrible. "Anyone would have done it!" they said. "He was just a little kid!"

True, but he _had_ done it. He hadn't thought and so... well, he didn't want to think about that. It was quite depressing, really.

He shouldn't have felt guilty about any of it (expect for Mary's birthday); but he did.

He sighed, casting around for a street sign. There was none to be seen.

"Where…" he started, but was cut off by a loud _pop!_ and a sudden weight bowling him over.

"This isn't the burrow…" someone said.

"Huh?" Harry groaned, having hit his head on the pavement with a painful _crack!_

"Harry?"

"What?"

"_Lumos_" A wand tip flared in the dark, outlining a heavily freckled face and reflecting off of flaming red hair.

"Ron?" Harry squinted against the glaring light.

"Harry! I've been looking for you!"

"Huh?"

"Yeah! I just stopped by your place. Mary said you were headed to the burrow so I was apparating there."

"Lost, eh?"

"Good thing though! I might never have found you." He yawned, then seemed to notice something. "Dress in the dark this morning, Harry?"

Harry glanced down at his T-shirt, a light blue number with the words "I like boys" and an enormous heart across the front. "It's—"

"Mary Sue's. I know." Ron laughed. "You're lucky you ran into me, mate. Anyone else might have got the wrong—"

"Ron?"

"Mhm?"

"Geroff me!" Ron made a hasty apology and stood, leaving Harry to sigh and push himself onto his elbows. "What was that about looking for me?"

"Right!" Ron held up a pack of what was evidently some kind of alcohol.

"Huh?" Harry stared dumbly for a second. Ron stopped grinning.

"Well..." He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "I couldn't sleep and… I figured…" He paused. "Circumstances being circumstances as they are… I thought maybe you couldn't either." He smiled sheepishly. "Drink?"

* * *

"Listen, mate, you're not drunk if you can lay on the floor without holding on!" Ron waved the bottle in front of Harry's nose. Harry pushed it away again. 

"Uh-uh" He shook his head. "Mary is gonna kill me if I come home smelling like beer."

"Like that can be avoided, come on. There's a friend." Harry took the bottle, dropping his empty one on the pavement with an audible crash.

"It's your fault if I die." He sighed, taking a swig. "I'll sick her on you, you know."

"You're not drunk yet, mate! You need to stop worrying!"

"I need to stop drinking."

"Like hell you do." Ron scoffed. "Now come on, how's the alphabet go?"

"I'm not gonna forget to alphabet, Ron."

"Come on, let's finish that one before we get testy."

"You know… I think I might be drunk."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"That's a first."

Harry knocked Ron on the shoulder, having missed his head by a good half-foot.

"Good job." Ron grinned and ducked another swing.

"You know, I've got an idea."

"No. No drunk ideas."

"Why?"

"I always live to regret them." Ron leaned back against the sidewalk. They'd settled themselves on a curb and were now surrounded by litter, most of which had not been there before.

"Oh? Do tell."

"No." Ron took another swig and folded his left arm under his head.

"Alright then, my idea."

"Your idea then, let's hear it."

"Well… Fred and George have those Skiving Snack-boxes, yeah?"

"Yeah…"

"And they've got those puking pastilles, yeah?"

"Yeah…" Ron sat up, trying to figure where Harry was going with this.

"So, well, I figured since they always said they'd give me all the free stuff I wanted…"

"Yeah…"

"Well… do you figure they could fix those pastilles into _any_ shape?"

"They're melty… I s'pose they could…"

"Like… _any _shape? No questions asked?"

"You know they wouldn't care." Ron laughed. "What are we gonna do, make Malfoy a basilisk shaped one? That's real _cruel _Harry…" He sighed. "For a moment there I thought you were being _creative_. How silly of me."

"I was thinking more along the lines of a bachelor party…" Harry grinned.

"Huh? We're going to be nice to that… that… _Malfoy!_"

"Damn, you're drunk, mate."

* * *

Unfortunately, Fred and George were asleep. That was okay, though, because Ron had a key. 

"Fred! George! We need—"

Also unfortunately, they weren't Fred or George. The instant they entered Weasley's Wizard Wheezes boxes of canary creams and fake wands began hurling themselves at the intruders, screaming insults and threats.

"Ow... that... what the... OW!" Ron bellowed as a skiving snackbox hit him across the cheek.

"I don't... OW! I don't... I don't think they're going to... huh?" Harry stopped swatting at the air as the boxes fell to the ground with a series of disorderly thuds.

"What was—"

"Do you wankers know what time it is?" George (Harry assumed it was him from the 'G' printed on his shirt).

"George!" Ron called, feigning mock surprise. "Is this your store? I didn't know!"

"Fred."

"Huh?" Ron cocked his head to the side.

"Fred, I'm Fred." He grinned, pointing at the 'G'. "It's funny! Learn to take a joke, mate." Fred (or was it George?) sighed.

"It's an ungodly hour in the morning, why are you here and why aren't we sleeping?" George (or was it Fred?) yawned.

"We need some puking pastilles." Harry replied.

"Oh? Planning to skive on work?" George (let's say it _was_ George, just for the sake of continuity) grinned, suddenly much more interested.

"No, we need someone else to..." Ron yawned. They did not inquire further. "So do you have any?"

"Loads!" Fred grinned.

"You're lucky, we just got a fresh batch done." George agreed.

"Good!" Harry grinned. "You think you could make an... er... _article of clothing_ for us?"

"Now?" they asked together, yawning in unison.

"Preferably." Harry tried to look likable.

"Urgh." George yawned again. "Will you leave?"

"Preferably."

"Fine!" Fred threw his hands up in exasperation. "What _article of clothing _was it that you wanted made?"

"Knickers…" Ron sat down on a pile of wooden crates. "If you don't mind."

The twins made a face but did not question further.


	16. CHAPTER SIXTEEEN

**"Such captivating Green Eyes,  
Those tender and serene eyes,  
Those never ever mean eyes,  
They're so loving and true.  
The sea beneath the blue skies  
Is reflecting your Green Eyes,  
And the trees in the wood-land  
keep reminding me too  
My heart where in my love lies  
Is tel-ing me of love ties,  
I look into your Green Eyes  
and wonder if you care.  
My dreams are all a-bout you,  
And when ever I doubt you,  
I look into your Green Eyes  
and I find my heaven there."-**

**Cancion Bolero, _Green Eyes_**

* * *

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

**In which Hermione has a rash and Narcissa interrupts Ginny's daydreaming...**

**_September 26, 2003_**

Hermione woke up at six in the morning. This was due, in part, to her late-to-bed, early-to-rise tendencies. It was mostly due, however, to an itch spreading across her face in the form of large red blotches. The itch she attributed to the blotches, and the blotches she attributed to an over-large red bouquet she'd had the misfortune of rolling onto in the night

"Blech…" She knocked the flowers down to her carpeted floor with a well-aimed kick and raised herself up onto one elbow. Catching her reflection in the bedside mirror, she stopped. It was going to be a long day, not least of all because of the "Wedding Shower at Ginny's", which a now-crumpled note, flung carelessly onto her bedroom floor, was commanding her to attend.

She crawled the remaining four feet to the bathroom and, through sheer willpower, managed to stand and face herself in the mirror, examining the swollen mass of redness that had once been her face with an air of barely-detectable panic.

Of all the completely random spells Hermione knew, and there were a lot of them (If she ever felt the need to change a galleon into a gopher she'd be set.), she'd never learned a single cosmetic spell. There'd been no need. In school, when the rare touch-up was needed, Parvati and Lavender had always been more than willing to banish the odd blemish, provided she'd allow them to do her make-up (the number of times she'd thanked God for "_scourgify_"…). After school she'd had Ginny, and then Draco (however metro-sexual he pretended to not be), to "fix her up". She'd never cracked a copy of "_Witch Weekly_", either, and the copy of "Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Getting Gorgeous" (a book her former professor had penned after being reminded by Miss Gladys Gudgeon that he was still, quote, "as dreamy as ever") that Ginny had given her as an early wedding present now stood in use as a doorstop at Flourish and Blott's.

She tentatively swung open her mirror, revealing, as she'd expected, three empty shelves and a top-shelf filled only with an enchanted razor ("Sister Fey: The razor that flat out refuses to cut you"), a tube of toothpaste, a dark blue toothbrush, and a tube of perfume that had once belonged to Ginny (she'd left it behind when she moved out), no cover-up, no nothing. So, not knowing any cosmetic spells and not about to show her face in wizarding-public looking like the swamp-thing, Hermione did what any young, bright, muggleborn witch would do. After a good, long, scream, she threw on her coat and went in search of a muggle pharmacy.

* * *

Today's headline read: House-Elf Activist Expecting. Which would be a Very Boring Headline Indeed, if, in fact, that was what Madame Alexis Morrow was really writing about. The article following this Very Boring Headline was a heaping load of fluff and strung-out half-truths, an example of the lows modern journalism had come to. It was steeped in rumors and lies (though the biggest and most obvious lie was only known to be a lie by three people in the known world) and repeatedly trekked off onto unexplainable tangents on everything from the "wretched state of child-care today" to the "disgraceful lack of honor harbored by modern bridal gowns". The complete terribleness of the article did not, however, stop a total of two-hundred-and-thirty-seven housewives in the greater London area from snatching the paper out of the hands of their much-perturbed husbands and poring over the _Daily Prophet_ as though it were the latest issue of _Witch Weekly_. In fact, a total of two-hundred-and-seventy-two witches and wizards had pinned the article, along with the black and white photograph of a very frumpy-looking Hermione Granger, to their kitchen (or bedroom) walls by the time Ginny Weasley had even rolled out of bed and clawed her way to the bathroom, where in she discovered this frightfully terrible headline already tacked to her mirror. 

After grimacing for an appropriately long moment, she snatched the article down and situated herself against the sink, intending to spend some time perusing it.

"Marriage," It began, "is a sacred, loving, respectable institution. In recent years, the popularity of the D words— death, destruction, damnation, and divorce— having increased, and this sacred institution has been mutilated and boxed into child's play. Where is the love?

"That, too, seems to have been stolen and hoarded by the world's beautiful people. Take one Miss Hermione Granger, a noted, respectable house-elf activist. She's also a regulation hottie…"

Ginny did a double-take. Yes, she'd read it right. She looked skeptically down at the distressed Hermione staring back up at her. "Thank god for the Daily Prophet." She smirked.

"Granger, a statuesque beauty with child-bearing hips and a full head of curls that Da Vinci would have loved, possesses the kind of unassuming, self-possessed, unconventional beauty—"

Ginny snorted.

"—that would have her modeling for Madame Malkin's if she hadn't gone into activism. This petite goddess has stolen the hearts of some of the wizarding world's most eligible bachelors in her mere twenty-three years. At the age of only fourteen she was connected to Viktor Krum and Harry Potter, at twenty she was engaged to Chudley Cannon's manager Ronald "Ron" Weasley (a relationship that, sources say, the lanky red-head has yet to—"

Ginny gave a small hiccup and skipped to the next sentence.

"—After their very public break-up, Granger disappeared for a little less than a year. While very little is known about where she went or with whom, it is known that she returned in the company of Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black Malfoy, and heir to the Malfoy fortune.

"Since then, Granger and Malfoy have been very open about their relationship, while Malfoy Senior (a convicted supporter of you-know-who) has been openly disapproving.

"Recently, and in a shocking twist to this already shameful tale, the "Vixen", as members of the Coalition Against Change (CAC for short) call her, and her current Romeo announced their plans to wed. We here at the Daily Prophet found this sudden announcement very suspicious, and so dug deeper, to find (as we suspected) that Ms. Granger's intentions are not so pure.

"This wedding seems to be in direct conjunction to the fact that Hermione Jane Granger has recently found herself with a bun in the oven. That's right, this already scandalous marriage is, in fact, a marriage of convenience. I, personally, am shocked at their lack of shame. Where is their respect for the holy institution of marriage? I'm simply glad that there are still gentlemen out there who, like Malfoy, would marry a woman in need, even if the accident _is_ his."

Ginny folded the article in half and walked across her flat to the one-room kitchen, where she commanded a pot of coffee to boil and then sat down to read the rest.

"Granger herself refused to reply to any of our owls, but her mother, Rebecca Laurence-Granger, said that she was "so excited to help her little girl get married again!"

Ginny laughed outright, she always _had _liked Mrs. Granger.

"Her sister, Jaquenetta "Jeanie" Granger, has also said that she's very excited to come to the wedding, but she's especially excited about dress shopping. Last time around Miss—"

"'Lo Miss, is this seat open?"

Ginny lifted her eyes to meet Kyle's vivid green ones. She'd always loved Kyle's eyes, she almost felt like she was looking at… but no. She nodded and gestured for him to sit. He did and they spent a long moment watching each other. Ginny didn't like starting conversations, she always felt rude. Silence isn't so terrible, anyway, she reminded herself.

"Have any dreams?"

Yes. "No," she lied.

"Hm."

Hm, indeed.

He told her about his dream. He'd been riding a whale and… she didn't care and so didn't listen. For a silly guy Kyle had surprisingly boring dreams. She nodded. She let her eyes meet his to give the illusion of attention. They were such pretty eyes, so much like Harry's. So very much like Harry's.

She loved Kyle's eyes. Kyle's eyes when he was angry, Kyle's eyes when he smiled, Kyle's eyes when he was tired, hungry, horny, Kyle's eyes wide open, staring into hers when he kissed her. She loved staring into his eyes as they fucked, and as she came, her mind lost in a fantasy world where she screamed "Harry, Harry, Harry" even as she whispered "I love you, Kyle". Because Kyle loved her, and she loved Kyle's eyes.

She'd seen those eyes last night, in her dream. In her dream she was back in the Chamber, watching her younger self as she waited. In her dream, she watched as a man materialized, slowly, before her. She watched Tom. She watched herself pass out, cold, her red hair fanned out on the ground. She watched Harry, coming to her rescue. Wasn't he always?

She'd watched the basilisk, slithering past her, an invisible bystander. She'd watched as Harry destroyed the basilisk, and then Tom. Then they'd left, leaving her small, unconscious self on the ground. She'd screamed at them "No! Don't leave me! Don't leave me!". She tried to wake herself up, cradling her younger self in her arms, crying until she felt a hand on her shoulder. She'd turned to see Tom watching her. "Didn't you know?" he said, "You were always stuck here."

_Ring-ring_

The harsh reality of bells ringing in the deli below brought her back from her reveries.

"Seven to Ten, love." Kyle flashed her a boyish grin, threw on an apron, and swung himself down the firefighter's pole that led to the deli's kitchen. Ginny watched his empty seat for a moment before following him.

"Hello, Narcissa." She tried to look amiably at the woman surveying her deli, her home, as though it were the biggest, most fluorescent sty she'd ever seen.

"Ginevra." Narcissa Malfoy's frown deepened as she surveyed Kyle. "Boy."

"Kyle," Kyle provided, "Ginny's boyfriend."

"So I see." Narcissa's eyes darted to the fresh hickey under Kyle's left ear.

"Um, yeah." Kyle grinned and darted back into the kitchen.

"I hear you're having a wedding shower." Narcissa grinned. Obviously, this was what she had come to talk about. This was the reason she'd walked into a deli she previously hadn't known existed and this was why she was consorting with a Weasley.

"Yes, this afternoon actually." Ginny grabbed a wet towel and started moving dirt around on the counter, making circles of dirty water as she went.

"Lovely." Narcissa watched Ginny's hands, small and callused but with a killer manicure, as she worked.

"Were you planning on coming, then?"

"I'm afraid my invitation must have gotten lost in the mail. Owls these days, you know."

"Ah, yes. Well," Ginny threw the towel into the sink with a large _squelch_ and a considerable splash, "If you want to come you are hitherto invited, seeing as Mal- Draco," she corrected, "is your son."

"He is. He does have cousins, too, you know."

"Bring them with, too, then." Ginny laughed. "The venue's not that big, but we can squeeze in as many as would like to come. So long as we can breathe."

"How… charming. What club is this going to be at, then?" Narcissa pulled a peacock-feather quill and a long-looking receipt from her crocodile-skin clutch. She balanced the quill on the back of the receipt.

"Oh," Ginny grinned. "Just here. In the deli."

* * *

A/N: Alright, here's chapter seventeen sooner than I expected. I decided to split what I'd intended to put into chapter sixteen into three chapters, instead of two. Maybe in the end it'll be four. Ah well. Also, if you can't say "fuck" in a PG-13 story could someone please tell me? Cause I'm not sure and I'm wondering if I ought to move the rating up. 

Chapter Dedication: Jillian and Mira and everyone who will have stuck with me for over half a year. As usual. Cause I realize I promised this chapter so many times. But here it is. I love you all.


	17. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

**"Marriage - as its veterans know well - is the continuous process of getting used to things you hadn't expected."-**

**Tom Mullen**

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

**In which Hermione wears makeup and Ginny smokes in the rain...**

**_September 26, 2003_**

"Wha' chuduta yer face?"

Hermione sighed. Even muggles were prone to notice when one looked like the swamp-thing.

"Allergies," she stated simply.

'Welcome to Supermart! My name is _Anne_! If you're not super-happy, then you can't possibly be at Supermart!' the girl's nametag proclaimed. The cashier herself, however, a slouching teenager with thin purple bangs in her eyes and a nose-ring, looked far less than super-happy. In fact, now that Hermione could get a good look at all of the Supermart's early-bird customers, none of them looked very happy in the slightest, but that may just have been the harsh fluorescent lighting.

"I need something to cover this." Hermione gestured to her blotchy complexion.

"Makeup?" Anne yawned.

"Yes." Hermione nodded. "Please."

"Aisle seven."

Hermione quietly thanked Anne and headed off in the direction of what she thought must be aisle seven, passing under an arch of highly deflated balloons and a sign declaring the "Semi-Semi-Semi-Semi-Annual Anniversary Sale!" She passed the same rack of rainbow colored lamps three times before she really felt lost.

"Need help finding anything?" In contrast to Anne, the man/boy now hopping about in Hermione's general vicinity did, in-fact, look 'super-happy'.

"Hi, erm…" She caught a glimpse of his nametag as he continued bouncing. "Mr. Fabulous. Is this 'aisle seven'?"

"Aisle seven?"

She nodded.

"No way! This is aisle two!"

She sighed.

"But I can show you aisle seven!" He bounced off in the direction she'd come. "Come on, silly! You can't find aisle seven without a guide!"

She followed, but refrained from bouncing. Back under the deflated arch, past the deflated cashier, and a pile of roll-on deodorants, 'Mr. Fabulous', whose real name was Clyde, stopped.

"Is this it?" she asked, hoping 'Mr. Fabulous' might just have an excuse to get back to his own, fluorescent-lit corner on the other side of the store.

"Aisle seven?"

She nodded.

"No way!" He continued on, bouncing up-and-down the rows of cheap markers, generic sodas, and more condoms than Hermione knew existed.

It was on their second time past a display of cherry-red lipsticks labeled simply "RedSexy" that they were stopped by a lazy cat-like creature with a messy blonde bun and fingernails like crimson claws.

"Needsumelp?" the girl asked Hermione, completely ignorant to 'Mr. Fabulous' bouncing away.

"Excuse me?"

"Need. Some. Help?" The girl blew a large pink bubble with her chewing gum.

"Oh, yes." Hermione nodded. She was growing tired of nodding. "Please."

"Make-up?'

"Um…."

"Cause I only do makeup."

"Well then…."

"If it's not makeup, then you're gonna have to go find Clyde again."

"Yes. Yes, it's makeup."

The girl chomped noisily on her gum. "Well then…" chomp "what kind of budget" chomp "are we talking about?"

Hermione dug into her pocket and pulled out the wad of paper money inside. "This."

The girl's heavily lined eyes twinkled as she took the money and quickly counted it. "Well," chomp "then you haven't really got a problem at all. Shall we?" She grabbed a basket from beside her feet. "What did you do to your face, by the way?"

"Well, I…."

"Cause you should really have that looked at." Chomp.

* * *

Somewhere in the world, Draco Malfoy was feeling Very Ill Indeed. Well, no. He wasn't _feeling_ Very Ill; he _was _Very Ill. He'd spent the past four hours throwing up what seemed, to him, to be everything he'd eaten in the last week. Potty and Weasel had passed out, woken up with very bad headaches and no inkling of where they might be or why Draco was so sick, and left to go to _his_ wedding shower. The stripper had, apparently, left while they slept and he was too ailing to notice; not that he'd have cared. She'd just been a _load_ of fun while she was there, what with the tripping and the falling and the giggling and the "Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit! This so isn't my fault!" 

He imagined this must be something like the time Weasel'd tried to curse him and ended up coughing slugs. He laughed weakly. _Bloody karma._ He remembered Potty and Granger carting him off to that _hut_. He'd laughed… and then Pansy had laughed… and then Crabbe had laughed… and then Goyle had laughed… and then Pansy had laughed far too loudly and grabbed his arm to keep herself steady and he'd stopped laughing. It had taken her a second to notice. _Stupid tart._

He leaned over and spewed all over the floor again.

_You know_, said the tiniest voice in his head, a new one that often sounded like his beloved fiancé, _Maybe if you felt guilty every once in a century things like this would stop happening to you._

"Shut up." He spat and lay back again.

So…this is what the illustrious Draco Malfoy is reduced to? the voice chided, Vomiting in the back corners of closed brothels? 

"Brothels?"

_I didn't say it, you did._

"You're such a cliché." He groaned and heaved air over the side of the couch. "He's your ex."

Which? 

"Both of them…and the stripper" he laughed again; a dark, amused cough.

_That's disgusting._

"You're disgusting."

_Nice comeback._

He swallowed, and then instantaneously began throwing up again.

"Bloody hell."

_Come on, get up._

"And what the fuck for?"

_The best shag of your life._

Well, maybe it only sounded a _little_ like his Granger.

* * *

People often said that Narcissa Malfoy was a heartless bitch; which was simply not true. People also often called her Narcissa Black-Malfoy; which was simply silly. A woman who had married so well and into such a prestigious bloodline would hardly bother keeping track of where she'd come from. Narcissa was far more interested in where she and her in-laws were at any given moment, her own family, namely her sisters, being such embarrassing failures. True, Bella had tried; but, quite obviously, she hadn't tried hard enough. 

So, for that reason, and because she simply was _not_ a heartless bitch, while her only son puked all over a closed bar, Narcissa Malfoy waited outside of Chateau Lestrange, a building she'd been inside many a time but which, for reasons unknown (well, she had her ideas), she was not currently being invited into. She'd dressed in her golden re'em-hair mantle and a cream colored dress. She was perfectly aware that Aemilia Lestrange, who was only really family by an extremely stretched marriage connection (Aemilia being her brother-in-law's sister) and too much time spent together in the ennui of weekend tea dates, was keeping her waiting because she was busy standing in her hall-sized closet trying to outdo Narcissa's outfit, but that was why she hadn't asked Aemilia to come to Palais de Malfoi. (When both of their homes had been built, it had been very "in" to give your manor a French name.) Narcissa simply didn't have _time_ to outdo Aemilia anymore. She was far too busy planning a wedding to be bothered with petty competitions like the one Aemilia was currently playing in; and she would always have the advantage on Aemilia, anyway. At least _she_ was a natural blonde (mostly), and her eyes were a normal color (or more normal than Aemilia's freakish violet ones). People would call Aemilia's eyes 'hypnotic' or 'deep'; but Narcissa knew they were freakish. And while Narcissa was very much shorter than Aemilia, Lucius and she would always take better pictures than Aemilia and Magnus ever had. Actually, now that she thought about it, she had the competition in the bag.

In an instant she had both turned to the imposing front doors to knock again and Aemilia had emerged, wearing the same green evening gown she'd worn to the Malfoy's Christmas party two-years-ago (Narcissa never forgot or forgave outfit-repeaters) and a wide-brimmed black hat with a live fairy posing where a netted veil might have sufficed.

"Oh!" Aemilia beamed, as if she hadn't known Narcissa would be there. "Darling!" They fluttered to kiss each other's cheeks, two well-dressed hummingbirds. "Have you been waiting long?"

"Oh, no, of course not. I only just got here." Narcissa lied, appraising Aemilia's hat with polite interest.

"Lovely mantle." Aemilia adjusted her own fur shawl.

"Yes, your dress is absolutely exquisite. I almost feel like I've seen it before."

"Oh, this old thing?" Aemilia smoothed a wrinkle on her skirt. "You must have seen it in the store. I got it at Malkin's a year or so ago, but I haven't had a chance to wear it yet," she lied.

There, it was done. The contest was over and Narcissa had won.

"Shall we go, then?" Aemilia smiled as though she hadn't just been beaten.

"Oh no, you first. I insist." As winner, Narcissa was entitled to the second, and so more glorious, entrance.

"Alright, then. I'll have Jeeves draw up a carriage."

"Jeeves?"

"He's new."

* * *

"That was the Weird Sisters singing their new cover of that old classic 'I Want You, Witch', which has just been climbing faster than devil's snare over the past few…" 

Ginny Weasley held up the plate she'd been washing, tilting it until her eyes appeared only as background to a monster pair of lips in the skewed reflection and then placing it to dry on a humming rack beside the sink. She caught a glimpse of her watch as her hand passed her face and then brought it back to confirm what she'd seen.

"Kyle?"

There was no reply from above her, so she apparated to their bedroom, where a pile of fluffy white comforters was all she could see of him.

"Kyle?"

There was still no reply so she kicked off her shoes and dived onto the mass of down comforter and boyfriend, which smelled oddly of peppermint.

"Gah, Ginny, you're crushing my liver!"

"Am not."

"Yes you am."

She rolled off of the pile and onto some pillows. "Kyle!"

A pair of green eyes became visible in the space between the comforter and sheets. "Yes?"

"It's noon."  
"And?"

"You need to go pick up the Grangers!"

"The who?" He yawned.

"Hermione's parents!"

"Oh, right."

"Just take the sign I made and they'll come to you."

"No work involved?"

"None at all."

He considered it for a moment. "Okay."

* * *

It was a proven fact that Kyle could not walk through the Leaky Cauldron without stopping for at least a little drink. But, because he was on a mission and because Ginny had made it perfectly clear that he was already late, Kyle took a butterbeer to go, which, he rationalized, couldn't put him behind anymore than Ginny crushing his liver had. 

So, sipping from a steaming brown bottle and lazily holding a sign that read 'Grangers' in a place that was neither an airport nor a train station, Kyle passed off Very Well Indeed for a bum of incomparable madness. In this way muggles began throwing money at his feet; not that he noticed; sleep was still sticking to his eyelashes and he was much too preoccupied with the billboard across the street (which featured a woman in pink knickers and little else) to care about much of anything.

So, when a red Ferrari pulled up in front of him, he was far too interested in billboard-girl's bellybutton to notice the fabulous piece of automobile in his general vicinity. Had he been paying attention, he might have been mildly impressed by the girl who emerged from the backseat (the three fifteen-year-olds eating chips across the street certainly were), whose hair was meticulously straightened and highlighted, lipstick meticulously touched-up, and outfit perfectly casual. She was wearing a huge pair of designer sunglasses, which covered perfectly (and painfully) plucked eyebrows and perfectly fake eyelashes; but not for long. As soon as she'd emerged from that fabulous piece of automobile she slid the sunglasses up into her hair in a perfectly practiced motion.  
"Is that Kyle?" the girl squealed, and Kyle was forced to tear his eyes away from billboard-girl's lint-free bellybutton.

"Huh?"

"Ohmygod! This is, like, so crazy! You've, like, grown… or something!" The girl threw herself onto Kyle in a far-too-enthusiastic hug.

Now Kyle was awake. "Jeanie?"

"Ohmygod, Kyle! You are, like, so slow!"

"What are you doing here?"

"Ohmygod, Kyle!" Jeanie took Kyle's butterbeer and downed what was left. "You really need to stop drinking."

Kyle looked at the sign in his hand for the first time. "Oh."

She laughed loudly, showing rows of perfectly even and white teeth. "Ohmygod, Kyle!"

"Uh-huh." Kyle took the lull in Jeanie's particular brand of conversation to look over her shoulder at Mr. Mark and Mrs. Rebecca Laurence-Granger, who were currently unloading the trunk of their truly fabulous automobile: a group of black suitcases punctuated by one leopard-print wheel-bag. "Wanna get your bag?"

"Huh?" Jeanie looked back over her shoulder. "Oh, no. Daddy'll get it."

"Oh… right." Kyle absent-mindedly took back his empty bottle.

"Everything set then?" Mr. Mark had managed his way over to a spot beside his daughter, slightly deflated under her bags (there were three of them) and his but beaming nonetheless. "Everything going well, Kyle?"

"Yes, of course, Mr. Granger. I'm just a bit tired."

"Oh, please. Call me Mark, everyone does."

"Of course, Mr. Mark. Do you need any help, Mrs. Laurence?" Hermione's mother looked up from the bag she'd been fiddling with.

"Oh, no. But thank you." She hefted the bag onto her shoulder and joined the rest of her family around Kyle, who had quite suddenly become the center of attention. He cast a last, despondent look at billboard-girl's belly button and then turned back to the Grangers.

"Everything set, then?"

* * *

As it turned out, Aemilia hadn't been lying. Jeeves _was_ new. So new, in fact, that he had yet to exist. 

Aemilia had name issues (as did Narcissa, it was something to do with rich blonde women simply not caring), but no one would dare to tell her so, especially the poor house-elf who was sent off looking for a non-existent butler. Twink knew perfectly well that there was no Jeeves; but when the choice was between correcting her mistress and producing an oddly named butler she'd always take the butler.

Chateau Lestrange (at least, what was left of it; 'Le petite chateau', which had occupied the east border of the estate, and 'Le chateau de taille moyenne', which had stood atop a hill in the south-west corner, having been burnt to the ground in a 'freak accident' right after Aemilia heard her brothers and sister-in-law were thrown into Azkaban for the second time. She'd been so happy to hear they'd escaped.) was different from other wizarding homes in that, as well as a full regiment of house-elves to clean, launder, and grovel, they also hired three human butlers (squibs, the lot of them) to handle the mansion's less remedial tasks. Their names were Riff, Niles, and Geoffrey. Twink resolved that Aemilia must have, in an uncharacteristic moment of carelessness, mistaken the soft-G sound in Geoffrey for a J… that would be it. Carelessness was much more redeemable in a house-elf's mind than blatant indifference.

She found Geoffrey in an unimportant room deep into the west wing; dusting a fireplace that was the only piece of decoration the room could offer to fill its own emptiness.

For a house-elf, the prospect of a full grown witch or wizard is always at least a little terrifying, the average male house-elf coming up to the average human man's knee. Geoffrey was tall, even by human standards. He had stringy, lead-colored hair that he wore far too much gel in and dark eyes that flickered in a constant limbo between contempt and servitude. The house-elves of Chateau Lestrange were terrified of him; but not nearly as terrified as their mistress made sure they were of her.

"What do you want, elf?" Twink had been lingering in the doorway.

"My mistress sends Twink to get a carriage."

"Then get a carriage." He stood.

"My mistress asks for Butler… Geoffrey… to get it." Geoffrey wasn't family. She could tell him the sky was green without having to do so much as break her nails.

"Oh…" Geoffrey dropped the brush. "Are you sure? I don't drive… but… of course."

Even Geoffrey knew who paid for his hair gel.

* * *

It was eleven o'clock and Ginny's deli was completely and totally empty. Even Ginny herself was upstairs, sprawled across the bed with her head on Kyle's chest. There was a slight breeze seeping through a crack in their window, and they could hear the Granger's chatting amicably in the guest room, where Ginny had assured them they could stay until the end of time, though secretly she hoped that they wouldn't stay so long. She chanced a glance to see if Kyle was asleep. She could hear his heart through the warm red t-shirt he was wearing and his chest. 

_Boom boom_

He felt her move and opened his eyes. "Huh?"

"Absolutely nothing." She smiled and pretended to be snuggling down to a nap; though when she was assured he'd fallen back to sleep she opened her eyes again and sat up. He mumbled something but made no effort to stop her. She stretched and rubbed the sleep from her eyelids.

In the next room she found Jeanie, posing in front of a full-length mirror that Ginny assumed she'd brought in one of her bags, as it hadn't been there before.

"Hey, Gin." Jeanie turned round and round, switching this detail and that.

"Where'd your mum and dad go?" Ginny yawned. She could have sworn that all three Granger's had been there.

"Downstairs." Jeanie removed her jacket and through it onto the loveseat, which had become a pile of cast-off clothes.

"Why?" Ginny sat down on the twin bed, which was pushed into the corner away from the queen-sized four-poster under the window.

"It's noon, Gin. You and Kyle dozed off, so mum and dad started the party on their own…" she added quickly, "don't worry, they didn't mind. No one we didn't know has got here yet, I think. It's all people who were gonna come to 'Mione and Ron's wedding. Does this look good to you?"

It took Ginny a moment before she registered what Jeanie had said. It had been so long since anyone had casually mentioned "'Mione and Ron's wedding". It had become The-Event-That-Must-Not-Be-Named. Jeanie was posing for her, though, so she nodded. "It doesn't really matter, though, Jeanie. No-one down there is going to care what you're wearing." _At least, _she added to herself, _no one who's there yet._

"Yeah, I know." Jeanie said, as though she didn't know. She pulled an elastic off of her wrist and Ginny watched in fascination as she spent a minute spinning her hair into an elaborate up-do above her head. "Mmm… no." She shook her head a pulled it all out in a tenth of the time it'd taken to do. "Can you hand me that bag?"

"This one?" Ginny picked up a heavy-looking pink bag from the ground. Jeanie nodded. "Wow… what are you holding in here, air?" She handed it over.

"I know, 'Mione gave it to me as a birthday present last year. It's got some kinda spell on it that makes it weigh, like, nothing." She pulled the bag open with a metallic pop and various shades of lipstick cases hit the ground with a clattering sound. "Oops."

"Alright, I better go. But thanks, Jeanie." Ginny turned from the room and slid down to the deli. Through the kitchen door she could hear light rock and a low, conversational murmur punctuated by soft bursts of laughter. She checked her reflection in a shiny pan and then walked out to her deli.

"Oh, Ginny!" Ginny turned toward her mother's voice.

"'Lo, mum." Mrs. Weasley grabbed her in a breath-restricting hug. "Who all is here?" she said, rubbing her ribs once she'd been released and could breathe almost-properly.

"Oh, dear. Well…" she looked around the room. "Just about everyone. But Jeanie didn't tell us: Where _is_ Hermione?"

Ginny stopped looking around the room and turned back to Mrs. Weasley "They're not here?"

* * *

Lucy's room was clean. Absolutely, perfectly, pristinely clean. Sitting on her duvet, legs crossed and looking across the vast expanse of suddenly visible floor, it made her sick. 

Every few weeks, her mother would decide that their home was filthy and go after the messiest room in it: Lucy's. After working for a full day she would realize that cleaning was a very bad idea and leave all the other messes to fester. The floor of Lucy's room was black marble. It was very cold in the winter and very cold in the summertime. It was generally very cold. Lucy's slippers were across the room, and it would be far too inconvenient to get off of her bed (a canopy of baby pink tulle) and get them, possibly freezing off her feet in the process. She took her school bag (she was being allowed home for two weeks in order to help with the wedding), which was lying on the bed beside her and dumped the contents onto the floor.

She watched an upturned inkbottle spew its contents onto the tile. Shimmering black ink slithered down the unnoticeable slant of her floor and pooled against the wall. Before she could admire the way white light played on the puddles edges, though, the ink had vanished; her mother insisted on buying the kind of anti-spillage ink that vanished when it touched anything but parchment. She sighed morosely.

The bag was quickly followed by her duvet cover, a pillow, and one sock. It formed a kind of bridge across her room. She schlepped across the duvet and the pillows, then scooted the last few inches on the sock.

They were very nice slippers.

Lucy had only just gotten back to her bed when her mother, looking as frazzled as if The In-Laws had come to call, threw open the door (without knocking) and stepped inside of the room (without being invited).

"Aunt Narcissa and Aunt Aemilia have come to call." She said, very short of breath, her blonde hair swishing madly as though it had only just caught up with her.

Lucy groaned. She was going to have to get dressed.

"Get dressed." Rachel commanded, and swept away.

"She's not my aunt!" Lucy shouted after her, forcing rebellion where there simply couldn't be any. Then added, to herself, "Most people don't even know their uncle's sister-in-law's sister-in-law."

She forced herself up again and walked over to the closet, which she'd only just finished re-filling the night before. Lucy had a lot of clothes, but only ever wore about a sixth of them. All of her relatives liked buying her long, swishy dresses, in the hopes that she might wear them once. The only occasions that Lucy ever found to wear the long, swishy dresses were when The In-Laws came 'to call'.

Lucy quickly tossed off her t-shirt (a black one from the Weird Sisters' Voldemort Tour, which she'd gone to see the previous summer) and jeans and opened the closet. Lucy's closet was magically organized; it only showed the clothes you were looking for at any one specific time. When Lucy opened the closet door, a barrage of satin and crushed velvet poured forth. It smelled slightly of mothballs. She grabbed the nearest dress, a short red taffeta one with an overlarge tulle underskirt, and pulled it on as quickly as possible. There was no time to magically hide her hair ("Still haven't cut out those awful stripes, then, I see." Aunt Narcissa said every time they saw each other.), so she grabbed a wide brimmed, striped red hat from a high shelf and stuffed it down over her ears, smashing the spikes she'd set it into in the process. As an afterthought she snatched up a red clutch, and then attempted to bolt from the room, nearly breaking her neck sliding on her empty school bag. She didn't realize that she'd forgotten shoes until she reached the hall and her feet set down on chilly stone. She might have turned back; but Rachel was calling her again and she dared not mouth off in front of Aunt Narcissa or Uncle's Sister-in-Law's Sister-in-Law Aemilia. It wasn't that either of them would punish her, but her mother would punish her later for embarrassing her in front of the two women she most sought to impress (Lucy didn't count Mum as a woman; she was more of a force).

Once she'd winced her way down to first floor (a feat unto itself), she found them waiting for her in the foyer; talking pseudo-civilly.

"Ah, Lucine!" Aunt Narcissa stood. Aunt Narcissa always stood when someone new entered the room, but it wasn't out of respect. She could obtain a better appraisal of the person's faults at a higher angle. "Still haven't cut out those awful stripes, then, I see."

Lucy tucked the traitor strand of black hair back into the hat and forced a smile. "Forgive me, Aunt. I'd forgotten."

"Quite."

"Lucine, where are your shoes?" Rachel laughed, though the question was very serious. She never called her _Lucine_ unless The In-Laws were afoot.

"Um…right there." Lucy pointed to the far corner, where her battered red platforms were lying in a heap.

"Oh…" Rachel recovered quickly. She laughed. "Lucine, stop joking! Where are your shoes?"

"I'll go get them." Lucy laughed, and started to turn, grateful for a reason to leave.

"Now, really, Lucine." Aemilia, who'd been sitting beside Narcissa before her collaborator stood, said. "There's no need for that."

"Yes, Lucine, come back. There's no need for that." Rachel echoed.

"Hand me that clutch." Aemilia snatched it away.

"Yes, Lucine. Give her your clutch." Rachel sank back into her chair; she was good at echoing.

Aemilia waved her wand over the clutch a few times and it transfigured into a pair of red, toothpick-heeled stilettos. Lucy eyeballed them. She had stiletto issues.

At a look from Rachel she nodded and took the life-threatening heels. "Wow… they're amazing."

* * *

Ginny was in the bathroom when they arrived. 

Every. Single. One. Of. Them.

She was in the bathroom; but she heard the sudden silence from where she was trying to hide on the floor. Once, there was a polite murmuring, and then there was nothing.

Silence.

She stood and opened the door a crack, just to make certain they hadn't all died.

Unfortunately, the parade of blonde hair and designer fur pouring through her deli door was fully alive and breathing.

Cordelia Malfoy was first, followed by Narcissa, who even struck a pose at the end of her imaginary 'catwalk'. A blonde woman (She had a fairy on her hat. Ginny barely covered a giggle.) followed shortly after them, and then a blonde man, and then three blonde women, and then two blonde men, and then two little blonde girls dressed in outfits to match their mummy's, and then a blonde boy followed by a blonde girl who had to be his sister and then… Ginny couldn't watch anymore. She retreated back into the bathroom with a frown and a snort.

It would all be perfect if someone could tell her where Hermione was.

* * *

Unlike the entire Malfoy clan, who were all two-hours late because for some reason they all felt the need to arrive together, Hermione Granger was late to her own wedding shower because a sales-assistant with claws where her fingernails ought to be had spent an hour and a half doing her makeup. She could feel an hour-and-a-half of foundation slowly dragging at her face, and the black goop around her eyes was congealing in the most inconvenient way. She reached up to wipe it off, but it came away in the form of an ugly black streak on her thumb so she decided against that idea. 

She turned down a dark alley and apparated to her own closed clothing store as soon as possible. Tiny mannequins stared at her accusingly, daring her to not work for house-elf liberation. A tiny piece of parchment was stuck to the register. It was a note from Tammy saying where she'd gone, the same place Hermione herself was headed.

She swept past the accusing mannequins and out of the store. The sky threatened rain, so she pulled her long plaid coat over her head and ran for Ginny's. The storm built steadily as she ran, sporadic bursts of lightening in the distance egging her on. She turned the final corner and it started drizzle. Cold rain drops dripped down through her hair and over her face. She threw open the door to Ginny's, submersing herself in the light rock jams of Celestina Warbeck just as the storm broke. The little bell above the door rang, a traitorous gong screaming her arrival. The room was plunged into silence. Hermione removed her coat; sixty eyes followed her as she turned and hung it on the hook by the door. Thirty-pairs of eyes followed her as she turned back.

Silence.

"Ohmygod…" Hermione turned toward a surprisingly familiar voice.

"Jeanie?"

Jeanie emerged from the blonde side of the room (Jeanie knew nothing of blood wars or muggle-hate, and so had immediately leapt to flirt with one of Draco's nameless cousins).

"Jeanie… what are you…" The question went unfinished. In one swift motion she was herded into the bathroom, where she ran face-first into Ginny.

"Oh…" Ginny clutched her head. "'Lo Hermione."

"Hi, Ginny. Thanks for the par—"

Suddenly, Ginny's face turned into that of a frowning, wet clown. It took Hermione a moment to realize that Jeanie was holding a pocket mirror between them. There was very little to do but scream; so that's exactly what the frowning, wet clown did.

* * *

By the time he fell asleep, Draco Malfoy might have died. The puking pastilles' effects had worn off on their own, but his entire body was spent. Every muscle in his body ached and he'd abandoned any hope of going to the wedding shower. His only goal was to live until someone found him. Then he could die. He feared loneliness. 

When he woke up, he managed to convince himself he'd been dreaming. A blonde, heavily made-up face was swimming in his vision and he decided that, yes, he must have passed out when the stripper was giving him his lap dance. She certainly wouldn't have been there, otherwise. Once Bri… Bi… Bai…_she_ slid into focus, he knew he couldn't have been dreaming. In the dim afternoon light, hangover or no, she gave a new meaning to the term 'coyote ugly'.

"Drink this." She handed him a bottle of steaming purple liquid.

Before he'd even finished the disgusting potion (It was a bit like gasoline with an after-taste like bile.), though, the world was swimming again and the container's contents were spilling over his torso as the world went black.

* * *

Ginny emerged from the bathroom as Hermione screamed. The high-pitched wail ricocheting off of dulled tiles had given her a headache and she desperately needed a fag. With the excuse of wanting to take out the trash she pushed past the semi-stunned masses and out the door. It was raining, and the chill soaked through to her core. She dumped the trash and leaned back under the deli's red awning. She rolled the cigarette and reached into her waistband, where her wand was waiting to be useful. 

"Need a light?"

Ginny turned her head ever so slightly. Her eyes landed on Harry Potter's branded neck, where a fresh hickey blared the mark of Mary-Sue Lyleson.

"Thanks." She held the tip to his handful of blue flames.

Some muggle inventions simply couldn't be replicated by magic. She took a drag and let the smoke pour lazily out of her nostrils. An expert, Ginny'd been smoking since the age of fourteen.

"Trust me, I feel your pain." He extinguished the flames.

_No, you don't._ "Oh, sorry." She half-heartedly offered him the smoking fag.

"Thanks." He took it.

_I didn't mean it._ "No problem." She pushed herself up to sit on top of the dumpster.

"Great party, though." He didn't sit, but leaned into the ledge and returned her cigarette.

She snorted. "Yeah, and the Holyhead Harpies are really all men in drag."

"Sometimes I wonder…" He smiled.

She smiled. He did have such beautiful eyes. "Me too."

"We should go inside."

"No." She took another puff on the cigarette. "I'm having a much better time out here."

"Yeah…" She wished he'd say 'Me too.' He didn't. Instead, he said "I told Mary I was going to get some punch."

"Why?" She eyed him, trying to hide her interest.

"I was."

"Oh." She sighed silently. "Did you get lost?"

He laughed. "No." and then "Did you?"

"No." She blinked a raindrop from her eyelashes. "I'm taking out the trash."

"Oh."

She offered him the fag again. He accepted again.

"Do you always smoke a fag after taking out the trash?"

"Do you?"

"That depends on the trash."  
Ginny suddenly became very interested in the glowing orange tip of her cigarette.

Inside, Hermione's screaming stopped and was replaced by a new, more frantic wailing. Ginny turned to see what was going on, but a line of red and gold balloons obscured her view. She sighed and extinguished the cigarette. "We should check that out."  
"Yeah." She was thankful to hear he sounded almost reluctant. He helped her down from the dumpster-top and together they walked into the over-crowded deli. The wailing, it turned out, was none other than Loyola Malfoy, leaning over a little blonde girl who lay spread-eagled on the floor. She was sputtering incoherently and Ginny was forcefully reminded of an angry Kreacher.

A girl dressed all in red taffeta who Ginny recognized as having been a first year when she was a seventh year was the first to make any sense of it. "She has a fatal allergy to peanuts."

"There were peanuts in the brownies!" Ginny realized with a start, feeling wholly unwelcome as the lone redhead in a widening blonde circle.

"Oh my god! Somebody—"

"PEANUTS IN THE BROWNIES!" The fairy who'd been resting on Aemilia's hat was now flying angrily around Ginny's head and she had to swat it away in order to realize that Loyola was screeching at her. "HOW COULD YOU!"

"I didn't know I…" It was highly unnecessary to finish that thought, though, because the effort of breaking down taxed so much on Loyola's fragile psyche that she simply hit the floor with a fur-muffled thud.

"Alright," the girl in red taffeta continued. "We need to get her to St. Mungo's." Then added, "Both of them."

Cordelia Malfoy stepped forward, instantly taking control of the situation in her iron grasp. "The nearest fireplace is Flourish and—"

"No… it's not." Hermione had come out of the bathroom, the eyeliner and mascara streaming down her face and blending with the wrong shade of foundation. "There's one in the back of my shop."  
Cordelia nodded. Two men carried both the blonde girl and Loyola out into the rain. The parade left the way it had come.

"I should go, too." Hermione wiped her eyes (it didn't help) and followed them, the lone, bold brunette in a deep expanse of blonde.

* * *

"Wanna go get some tea?" 

Claudia had been taken care of and Loyola had been revived; so Hermione had spent the last hour-and-a-half sitting by herself on one side of the waiting room while the Malfoys fluttered around Loyola on the other side. She'd gone to the bathroom and removed a little bit of the melted make-up, but her eyes were still over-lined and her face was now a patchwork of various shades of pale. She'd resigned herself to being alone until she left, and so hadn't expected Lucy to walk over and ask her, quite civilly, if she'd like to go get some tea.

"Yeah, sure." Hermione set down the copy of Witch Weekly she'd been perusing (there was an interesting article on marriage vows in it) and stood. She only came up to Lucy's shoulder, but she attributed that largely to the red stilettos Lucy was balancing atop. They started towards the lift, their speed hindered by Lucy's slow, deliberate steps.

After an awkward silence outside the lift she made an executive decision that they ought to take the stairs. They started up, Hermione walking behind Lucy to ensure they didn't separate, and Lucy walking at an unbearable pace.

Hermione let her mind wander as they passed the third floor (A woman with cropped hair sat on the landing, pointing after them and laughing uncontrollably.). They were almost to the fourth when, mid-step, Lucy's shoes decided to de-transfigure and she was sent tumbling down the stairs, bowling Hermione over in the process.

Luckily for Lucy, Hermione was there to break her fall. Hermione, however, had nothing but the third floor landing to fall to, and once she reached it she continued somersaulting past the laughing woman, through the big double doors and on and on until she collided with someone's patent-leather shoes. She was quickly joined by a small red clutch.

As it turned out, she knew the someone.

"Mal-ferret?"

He feigned concern. "Oh, Granger, have you hurt yourself?" and then "What's wrong with your face?"

"Shut up." She stood so that they were almost level. "Where the BLOODY HELL have _you_ BEEN?"

"I was hanging out with a stripper, who got me ill and then brought me here. Where else would I be?"

"Stop lying, wart."

"Aw… you do care."

She leaned her head on his shoulder, no longer caring that her questions be answered. "Let's go home."

"One question, Granger."  
She nodded.

"Do you still want that wine?"

* * *

A/N: Thanks to everyone on AIM who I bothered with grammar questions (especially Jillian). If anyone finds a mistake, could you tell me? I just wanted to get this chapter finished and up. I only wanted it to be 3,000 words, max.It's certainly over 6,000. So, here it is. Now I can move on from this chapter and get to the rest of the story. Wow. What a very long day (I mean, think about it, it hasn't even been 24 hours since Malfoy went out for wine. God... it's like Romeo and Juliet, not with the forbidden love,but with the fact that that play only happens over about three days. Wow; and it's only been nine days since he asked her to marry him. I mean... think about it. It's mind blowing.) Alright, review, if it please you. I'm a total review whore, and it always makes my day when I get one (don't you wanna make my day?), but I'm gonna keep writing review or no. Love you all just for getting this far! 


	18. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

**"Nothing is so wretched or foolish as to anticipate misfortunes. What madness is it to be expecting evil before it comes?" - Lucius Annaeus Seneca**

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

**In which Draco has poor short-term memory and Hermione punishes him with a snuggle...**

_**September 26, 2003**_

_Crash_.

The steaming cup of Earl Grey sitting on the table fell off of it, again. Hermione waved her wand at it; the cup repaired itself and the spilled tea disappeared.

The first few times it had happened, she'd been angry. She'd told Malfoy to get his "filthy, clumsy, stinky feet off of the table!" He'd complied for a few moments, but as soon as she'd poured herself a new cup his feet were up and the cup was down. She poured herself another glass of tea and started again. "As I was saying."  
"Were you?" His feet were up again, but she'd moved the cup so that he couldn't kick it down.

"Yes. You still haven't answered my question."  
"Oh, yes."  
"Yes, you've forgotten?" She smiled.

"No."  
"It's been barely more than a week."

"That's why I haven't forgotten." He crossed his ankles; the table trembled ominously.

"Alright, then. Start the list."  
"Why don't you?"

The list had been her idea. After the past few days, she could barely believe that the path up to their as yet unpicked wedding date would be a walk in the park (that is, unless the park were full of chimaeras and axe-murderers… or in-laws, as it turned out.). Fortunately for them, she'd realized once they'd gotten to her flat, they'd been given a park map. He hadn't understood the metaphor.

"You _have _forgotten."

"No, I have not."  
"Yes, you have. So…"

"Have not, and if I had one could hardly blame me, considering the week we've had."

"True." She nodded. "…but you have yet to produce a warning."

"Touché" He sat, deep in fake-thought for a moment before she folded.

"Fine, I'll start."

_I don't know why we'll have to go back in time in order to get married_, she'd said, _but the future must be really horrid. Why else would we leave it?_ He'd agreed.

"Pansy Parkinson…"  
"Run," he finished.  
"Lucky guess." She wrote it down.

"Who wouldn't run from that cow?"

"You."

"Touché."

That's when she'd used the park metaphor. He'd been confused. _Explain_, he'd said. She'd rolled her eyes.

"So, that's one."  
"Bravo, Granger. You can count."  
She ignored him. "Didn't you say something to…" she giggled "you, something about eating knickers?"

_Yes. _"I don't recall." He lied. "How ridiculous, edible knickers."  
"That's two."

"Bravo, Granger. You can—"

"Already said that."

"Touché."

"Already said, re-said, stepped on and _killed_ that. Give me another."

_How many people are lucky enough to be given a guide to their future? _She'd said. _What's good… what's bad… _He hadn't known, but said that he expected she might know the exact number. That's when she'd said they should write them all down; just to prepare themselves for… whatever it was that was going to happen.

"Chang and Davies?"  
"What about them?"  
"Just the usual: If you see them, run. But I'd do that anyway."  
She added it to the list. "That's not very nice."

"No, it's wise. Davies is all hormones and pills, and Chang's got… Chang issues."

"That's still not very nice."  
"I might have been offended by what you said about Pansy."  
"But you weren't… aside from the fact that _you said it_."

"Touché." She took a sip from the still-intact cup while he thought. "I think that's already happened, though. So we can't prevent it."  
"We can't _prevent_ any of this."

"Then what are we doing?"

She smiled knowingly. "I like making lists."  
"Bleeding hell."

"_And_, perhaps, we can prepare ourselves for what's going to happen. You know… brace ourselves for the impact?"

"Great."

She took another sip. She swallowed. "Tell Harry Potter last." She said quietly.

"What?"  
"That was one of the warnings."

"Tell him what?"

"Probably about the whole… baby… _thing_."  
"Oh, right. The sexy lie."

She pushed his feet off of the table. "Shut up, Mal-ferret." She laughed. "But that's probably already happened… at the club."

"Oh, yeah, what with the reporters and all."

She added it below 'Cho and Roger- Run', but drew up a small X beside it.

"What was after that?"

She thought. "Madam Malkin's"

"What about it?" He folded his feet under him on her living room couch. "Warnings aren't very good if they don't make any sense."

"Honestly, I don't remember."  
"Ha!" He pointed one long,white finger at her. "_Now_ who doesn't remember?"

"I've come up with this entire list, you louse."

"Louse?" He snorted.

"Shut up." She included 'Madam Malkin's?' below the Harry warning.

"Did you get the one about house-elves yet?"

"What about house-elves?" she asked absently, embellishing the last question mark.

"About them not making good cooks."  
"Of course they don't make good cooks… they make good free, paid voters."

Now it was his turn to roll his eyes. "Just write it."

She did. "I think that's it."

"_That's all?_"

"I think so."

"God, we're really not very good at giving warnings are we?" He shouted after her as she stood to pin the list up in her kitchen.

"Huh?" She came back and crawled onto the couch beside him, leaning her head on the crook between his neck and collarbone. He smelled like pineapples. "Draco?"

"Yes, Granger my sweet?" He stretched out beneath her.

"Why do you smell like pineapples?"

"Why do you smell like…" He planted a kiss on the top of her head under the pretext of smelling her hair. "mmm…"

"Mmm?" She giggled against his shoulder. "I didn't know 'mmm' had a smell."

"Apparently…" He tilted her chin up at a slightly awkward angle to plant a soft kiss on her nose. "There are some things even the great Granger doesn't know."

"Touché." She leaned in to his lips.

"Granger?" He kissed her again.

"Yes?"

"Can I ask a stupid question?" Kiss.

"I'm sure you can." She shifted into a more comfortable position and let his tongue (which had been trying to get to hers for the past few long moments) pass her lips.

"Do I really smell like pineapples?"

She laughed against his lips and leaned down to nuzzle his neck. "Yes."

"Oh."

She let her hands wander into his hair as she kissed his temple... his cheekbone... his freshly colored lips.

"Is that a good thing?"

"No, Malfoy…" She kissed him again. "_That_ is a stupid question."

"That's a yes, then?" They resumed for a moment.

"Out of curiosity…" She paused again. "Why?"

"I was just wondering why you suddenly felt the need to thrust yourself upon me."

"Then they weren't lying." She laughed and leaned against his shoulder again. "You really _are_ that dim."

"Okay, I'll shut up."

She pretended to believe him and went back to kissing. "No…" kiss "it's alright," kiss "I just thought…" longer kiss "you know," kiss "I haven't had you all to myself in over a week." Resonant, tongue-filled, lingering kiss.

"Oh…" he said when she had finished. "Okay."

"You insensitive sleaze ball…" The thought died on her lips as he pulled her down again.

"I love it when you talk dirty, Granger." He tasted the corner of her lips.

"You're disgusting."

He moved down to the curve of her jawbone. She tasted earthy and salty and natural and _perfect_. "You love me."

"You know I do."

He kissed the soft skin under her right ear. His hand moved up to stroke the tendrils of brown hair at the nape of her neck. He tugged at the collar of her turtleneck, exposing florid skin that contrasted sharply with silver and emeralds. "I thought you'd gotten this off."

She stopped kissing the back of his neck and followed his gaze. She visibly deflated. "Trust me, I've tried."

"Is it really all that hard?" He felt the smooth back of the necklace, where smooth silver sat in place of a clasp.

"Yes, it really is." She snapped. She crawled back down so that she could rest her head on his soft stomach. "Your grandmother must have invented some kind of new sealing charm just for this."

"Actually, my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother, Marthe de Mal Foi, made it." He looked slightly putout that the kissing had stopped, but wasn't so stupid as to try and start it up again. Instead, he amused himself by playing with her hair.

"God, even your ancestors are out to get me!" She laughed darkly, the vibrations tickled his stomach but he didn't dare let himself laugh. "I'm really feeling the love here, Draco."

"Hey, I can't help who my family is; and if I could I wouldn't." He stopped playing with her hair.

They sat in silence for a moment. "I think I'm too tired to argue that point."

"Okay."

"I'm going to sleep." She snuggled into his sweater. "Don't squirm too much."

"I'm not promising anything."

* * *

A/N: This chapter is a lot a lot a lot shorter than the last one, but that's why I finished writing it so quickly. It just kind of flowed. I also had a lot less to fit in. Next chapter is (I think) an interlude and then a very big development involving Ron. Be looking out for the interlude (it's one of my favorite characters) and the chapter following that one up, they should be out at around the same time (preferably within 2 weeks, but who knows, it could be 2 years... I hope not, though). Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter and who is still going to review this chapter. XOXOXOXOXO 


	19. Interlude: A Luna Story

**"What can you do against the lunatic who is more intelligent than yourself, who gives your arguments a fair hearing and then simply persists in his lunacy?" –George Orwell**

CHAPTER NINETEEN

_Interlude: A Luna Story_

**In which Luna eats chow mein and Hermione and Draco meet a cold welcome...**

**_December 25, 2001_**

Luna's shoes were white with blue polka dots. She watched her toes move out of sight beneath the tablecloth and then come back again. Back and forth. Her feet swung like pendulums from her knees. She wondered if she could stop them. She wondered if she'd want to.

Back and forth. Her legs were far too long for this game, and so her feet made a _clack_ sound on the wooden floor every time they reached the nadir of their path.

Back.

_Clack_

Forth.

_Clack._

Back

Clack. 

Forth

_Clack._

She'd been tapping her feet along with the wedding march, which had played about five minutes previous, but now that was over, and the woman sitting across from her's big, lacy hat was blocking her view of what was happening at the front of Wen's Chinese Happy House, which is where Luna was. She busied herself with the tablecloth. Luna knew weddings were beautiful, fabulous expressions of love, but to her they always seemed so _boring_. She consoled herself with the knowledge that, even if the wedding _was_ boring, when it was over there'd be good food. Luna loved Chinese food.

Neville was sitting on her right, hiding his boredom from everyone except Luna, who knew he was bored because he kept attaching and detaching his cufflinks. Ginny would have been on her left but that, as Hermione was unavailable, she'd been called into service as a last-minute bridesmaid. Luna took the opportunity to slide into her empty seat. Now with the hat woman out of her way she had a clear view to the front of the restaurant, where a red-robed Dumbledore was in the process of wedding a casually-dressed Dean (Luna found it insurmountably funny that Neville was better dressed than the groom) and a giggling Lavender (who was wearing a white, oriental-inspired mini-dress and a tiny white pillbox hat with some netting for a veil).

"You may now kiss the bride." Dumbledore said. Luna felt, for an instant, that if she'd moved sooner she might not have missed the entire wedding. But then they'd kissed and the tables filled with little white boxes of rainbow-fried rice and chow mein, pot stickers and tiny pots of soy sauce, kung-pow chicken and little fried-up crab rangoons. She realized she was far too hungry to be sad at someone else's wedding.

She hadn't been able to eat all day. On the way out of the house a combination of her going too slowly down the stairs and Neville's natural clumsiness had spilled a vase of water on the dress she'd planned on wearing. As they'd planned on getting breakfast on the way there (many plans had been broken in one innocent slip) and they'd been delayed by her having to find something else to wear (she would have worn the wet dress, but that she didn't really like it in the first place) her stomach had yet to be filled. She dug into the pot stickers, not waiting to watch the happy couple make their way to the head table. She felt like the Empty-bellied Erminske, which was saying something. She was about to tell Neville this between mouthfuls of chow mein, but was deterred by her having suddenly gone deaf. That was the only logical explanation for the room suddenly go absolutely silent, and Luna was a very logical woman. She fiddled with her ears for a moment before giving up and turning to Neville, intending to communicate her deafness to him in some way or another. Neville was paying her no mind, however, because his attention, as well as everyone else's, was locked somewhere behind Luna. She followed his gaze. She understood. They were all, naturally, shocked that Hermione Granger was so tan. Luna herself was quite surprised. Who would have thought that a woman with her complexion could get a tan? No matter, she turned her attention to the man beside Hermione. Draco Malfoy, whom Luna had always reserved a special glare for ever since he rejected the valentine she'd gotten him her first year, was not tan at all. In fact, he had a rather bad sunburn. This made Luna happy, but the Santa hat perched at far-too-jaunty an angle on his head made her happier. They were carrying, between them, a large bag, which Luna assumed to be full of presents. This made Luna happiest.

* * *

A half-hour later, while Luna was playing with her present, a funny little monkey that ran back and forth over the table when she spun the knob on the bottom, and everyone else was glaring at their unopened packages (everyone except for Dumbledore, that is, who'd opened his and laughed happily at each of the 100 Christmas crackers inside.), they were still yelling in the women's bathroom, 'they' being Molly Weasley, Lavender, Ginny, Parvati, Padma, Dean and Harry (the latter two having been allowed in because no-one was actually doing anything secret inside except for badly hiding what they were yelling about.) Hermione and her date had seated themselves by the door. The hat-woman made a comment about them getting ready for another quick getaway. 

"They shouldn't be here in the first place!" yelled a female voice.

"We invited them, it'd be rude to kick them out!" yelled another female voice.

"Think of Ron!" said another female voice. Ron, who was sitting on the other side of the room from Luna, staring glumly into his fried rice, visibly shrunk. Everyone outside of the bathroom resumed pretending not to listen. "He's been through so much already! Now this, ON CHRISTMAS!"

"So you do it!" said a male voice.

"Me? It's not my bleeding wedding!"

"Well, it's is ours!" said a male voice, presumably Dean's.

"So why can't we just go out and take the presents and IGNORE THEM!"

"They don't deserve to be ignored!"  
"They don't deserve to give us presents!"

"So we agree?"

"What?"

"Dean will tell them to leave, glad that's settled."

"I will not!"

"And why not? YOU WERE SO KEEN ON KICKING THEM OUT A FEW MINUTES AGO!"

"That's rude!"

"WOULD YOU RATHER HAVE THE REST OF YOUR WEDDING SPENT IN AGONIZING, GUT WRENCHING TENSION!"

"YES!"

"I SAY WE KILL 'EM!" said a female voice.

"THAT'S RUDE!"

"Thank god they can't hear us…"

Malfoy made a show of checking his watch. "Oh, dear, darling! Look at the time!" He took her hand and pulled her up. "I've got a meeting with a watch repairman I'm going to be late to. Bye, all! Smashing party!"

"Merry Christmas!" Hermione waved, she only had one arm through her coat when he dragged her bodily out the door.

"Ho ho ho!" he called; and they were gone.

"Well, Hermione's looking well," Luna said finally, watchingher monkey run back across the table again.


	20. CHAPTER TWENTY

**"I will be watching you and if I find that you are trying to corrupt my first born child, I will bring you down, baby. I will bring you down to Chinatown." -Meet the Parents**

CHAPTER TWENTY

**In which Hermione's fireplace misbehaves and Narcissa makes omelets...**

**_September 27. 2003_**

Hermione woke up in her own bed, wrapped in fluffy blue sheets and really, truly happy for the first time in days. A rosy kind of dawn was creeping through her curtains and, she realized with a happy sigh, she had nothing planned for the entire day. She might have been suspicious of her good fortune, had this day occurred a week later; but at the moment she was fully content to accept that today was going to be a good day. She sat up and started thinking of all the things she'd do with so much freedom. Crookshanks, who'd been curled up on her feet, leapt up to her arms as she swung her legs out of bed and walked to the bathroom.

She poured a half-bottle of bubble bath into the tub and started the tap. With so much time, who could stand to take a shower?

She'd get washed, curl up with a good book for a few hours, possibly one of the wedding magazines she'd bought, or had she left them at the ministry? No matter. If not, she'd read one of the romances Jeanie had given her for Christmas; then she'd call Draco to go out to lunch.

She stripped and stepped into the hot bath.

He'd gripe that she was waking him up before noon, but she'd drag him along and make it fun and even though he wouldn't say it she'd know he was thankful.

She lathered shampoo onto her hands and attempted to wash her thick hair.

Maybe they'd go to Flourish and Blotts later, and she'd make him carry her books and he'd whine, but it'd be cute and secretly he'd enjoy himself.

She rinsed her hair and made her way out of the bathtub.

They'd pass a florist and go inside and choose flowers for their wedding. _Wedding…_

She toweled off and walked back out to her bedroom, Crookshanks nipping at her heels.

Maybe while they were there he'd buy her a bouquet… he'd say it didn't actually mean anything, he'd just happened to have money in his pocket, but she'd know, and she'd say "I love you, too."

She carefully chose an outfit for the first time in months; a fuzzy, brown T-shirt and new khaki pants.

It was going to be so amazingly wonderful that she could barely wait. Maybe they'd simply have to go to breakfast. Yes… that's what they'd do.

She dressed, bent to kiss the top of Crookshanks's head and threw a handful of floo powder onto the fireplace. She stepped into the emerald flames, shouting "Palais de Malfoi," as she went. With a tiny puff of smoke and unexpected force she was thrown backwards into her apartment.

Crookshanks meowed around her feet.

"Yeah, I'm sure this is all very funny to you," she snapped, standing.

She tried again with much the same result. "This day is souring very quickly…" She resolved to take the Knight Bus.

She grabbed her wand and started towards the door, wondering what could be wrong with her floo.

The answer came to her upon exiting the flat. "Oh, god… this day is souring quickly," she repeated, her landing having been replaced with a poorly lit corridor, the majority of which was decorated in black marble. "Well, at least I know nothing's wrong with my fireplace," she said to Crookshanks, who was curled up around her ankles again. "Can't floo to a place you're already at." She picked him up. "Let's go inside and pretend this never happened, wait for that bastard fiancée of mine to show up and beg our forgiveness," she cooed, turning to follow her own advice. Crookshanks, however, had other plans. He leapt from her arms and was streaking down the hallway before she knew what was happening. She swore. "Come back!" When no response came but the sound of his padded footsteps fading into silence, she looked wistfully back into her flat and her now ruined day, but knew she would follow him, and possibly find that bastard fiancée she'd been talking about.

* * *

Narcissa was eating breakfast in his dining room when Draco finally woke up and went looking for food. This was odd in most respects as a) Narcissa didn't eat breakfast or b) wake up before noon or c) come into his dining room, which was only really his because no one but him used it. Narcissa's dining room was a cream-colored bay-window-type thing on the east wing, well away from the dark, red room he'd taken to calling 'his'. However, never one to judge anything his mother took the time to do in the way of family unity, he didn't say anything about it; but merely took the omelet she was offering him and sat across the table from her. Once he was seated, he realized she'd neither taken the time to put on make-up or change out of her sleeping clothes. That was stranger, Narcissa hadn't let anyone, even Lucius, see her out of makeup for over twenty years. 

"Good omelet." He offered in way of conversation (not that he wasn't used to silent breakfasts, he was simply building up to asking why she was there in the first place). It was a blatant lie, the omelet was burnt and specks of eggshell were lurking on top of it. He'd have to find out which house elf had made it and cause it suffering (in the most humane way possible, of course. Hermione would have his head if she thought he was mistreating his height-impaired servants. He was, of course, but she didn't need to know that.)

"Really? I made them." He choked on the orange juice he'd been drinking. That was too, too much.

"Mum, stop lying. That's not even funny." He highly doubted Narcissa knew where the kitchens were, let alone how to crack an egg and make an omelet out of it. Then again… considering the state of said omelets…

She frowned. "Fine, then. I'm a completely inadequate mother."

_Oh, god, not that again._

"You know, you work all your life so that your son can go off and be happy and all you ask is…"

"Mum!" he interrupted, "You've never worked a day in your life!"

She made a sound like _humph_.

"Now," he pushed the suspicious omelet away. "What have you done?"

"Nothing." She lied.

"Mum…"

"Well, there's no use arguing, anyway…" She coughed. "Orange juice?" She held out the pitcher. He noticed bits of orange rind floating in it and politely declined. "Oh… no? Well, your fiancée will be down in a moment and I'm sure she'll want some, so I'll just leave it out."

"Mum…" he gasped. "You _didn't_."

"I didn't what?"

"You didn't _kidnap_ her, did you?" he asked, half-hoping, half-pleading.

"Oh, no, of course not, darling!" He heaved a sigh of relief. "I let her bring her entire flat, for Merlin's sake! A _kidnapper_ would never be so kind. No, no. I'm simply letting her live here for the time being. It's a social upgrade, really."

His head hit the table with a painful smacking sound. "Ow…"

"Oh, darling. What is it?" He heard her getting up and coming around the table. "Here… let mummy help."

"_Mum_!" He whined, standing before she could sprinkle him in boo-boo fixing kisses and promises of dragon-skin boots.

"Oh, darling." She tried to pat his back in a motherly fashion. "Tell mummy what it is and we'll make it all better. _Promise_."

"But _mum_…"

"Shh… just sit back down and I'll get you some nice hot…"

"NO!" He stepped away from her. She frowned, confused. "You can't just _do_ things like this to people!"

"And why not? I tell you, she already loves it here. I've had Lash make up some new big, fluffy, pink towels with 'Helen Grunnings' embroidered on them and everything. Just _imagine it_!"

"She liked her flat where it was before!"

"Yes, but I assure you that she likes it much more opening up onto…" She thought for a moment. "…that lovely corridor."

"That lovely corridor?"

"Yes, you know the one."

"I really can't believe you." He sat again, but only because if he continued standing he'd be in danger of fainting before he could properly scold his mother.

"Yes, I know! Isn't it marvelous!" The pitcher poured another glass of orange juice.

"First you _kidnap_— yes, _kidnap_— my fiancé, and then you have the nerve to lose her flat and tell me it's 'marvelous'. You are absolutely…" She looked down at him expectantly. "You are absolutely my mother…"

"Oh, darling, this is going to be _so much fun_! I mean, I know it'll be a bit strange but I just know we're going to get along so well! We'll be like a super-family, embracing all the races of the world in one melting pot of love and sunshine with cotton candy!"

He groaned.

"I know. It's too fabulous for words." She bent to embrace him around his shoulders. "I'm so excited!" The chair toppled backwards as he jumped away from her motherly advances. "Dracikins?"

"I… need… to… find… my… fiancée… and… you… are… not… _helping_! GAH!" She frowned as he swept from the room, the spitting image of her own, albeit younger, Lucius.

"They really do grow up _so fast_…" She sighed as she expected poor and ugly mothers might, then caught her reflection in a wall mirror and decided that it was quite time to cut the act and put her makeup on.

* * *

A/N: Okay, after THREE CHAPTERS, finally the author's note. Sorry, I know you don't get the whole thing with Owen Rose, but it'll make sense in the end, promise. Hope you enjoyed it. Love and kisses. Might be a bit until the next update,I have synchronized swimmingpractice everyday after school, and while it's making my super-svelte I have no time to write anything except on weekends. And only then at four in the morning (Yes, it is currently 3:59. I have had too many Dr. Peppers) Next chapter is something I've been REALLY looking forward to writing. Erm... I've been reading Macbeth, by Cyropi, and at the end of each of her chapters she has a question, and I like that idea. So... you guys keep saying I don't have enough reviews (I'm not saying I don't agree but I think it would be pompous to say so myself.) I think I have plenty of reviews until I look at the really fabulous stories that have like 2000 and I'm like GAH, wtf? So, why do you guys think that is? I'm in the mind to just agree with Obsessed with Draco and say I have publicity issues, which is fine. But then I was reading some fics the other day, and I realized that if the first chapter doesn't catch my attention immediately, I don't stick with a storyand so then review it. So I'm thinking of re-writing the first chapter, but I need ideas. The stuff that happens in that chapter has very little to do with the rest of the story, I just realized, so I don't know. And if I was a discriminating reader I probably wouldn't continue, no matter how fab the rest of the story is. But now I have no idea what to write instead. I was thinking maybe I'd start in the past. But who knows. Ideas? Suggestions? Reviews? You know any little tidbit makes me smile. Love you all! 

Oh, and also! As to something else Obsessed with Draco said, (I love the rest of you, that was just a good review, it made me think), Yes, I will be writing stuff about the year they disappeared as well as why she left. Things that had to do with why she left, like loyalty, forgiveness, reconciling your past, betrayal, telling the truth, following your heart, etc. are some themes I've realized I'm working into here subconciously (forgiveness being HUGE), so yeah. That stuff is really important. You'll see more on betrayal and following your heart next chapter, as well as someMalfoy family history... past scandals etc.(and kind of forgiveness, at the very end and what happens when you don't forgive). As always, love and kisses!

EDITED March 19, 2005: Due to recent revelations on my part about what an awful direction this story is going in (my search for a plot basically killed the plot it was supposed to have, however weak it may have originally been i ended up with none), I've removed the next chapter. Sorry. It'll be up again tomorrow, probably. I need to think for a bit.


	21. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

**"Comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love." - Solomon**

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

**In which Hermione should have been in Slytherin and Draco hits his head again…**

**_September 27, 2003_**

Hermione didn't recall Palais de Malfoi being so maze-like, but then she'd never explored it so thoroughly.

She'd managed to catch Crookshanks, he was now padding regally ahead of her, but had since got lost in the manor's deepest, darkest halls.

She was holding her wand ahead of her like a sword. Draco had told her all sorts of stories about what happened when uninvited guests got lost in his 'Palais'. Rooms that devoured intruders, chimaeras hiding under dark couches, rooms filled with fire, rooms filled with ice… Hell, even Tonks had disappeared for an entire week when she'd been one of the aurors in charge of searching a third floor corridor. Hermione glanced nervously over her shoulder, half-expecting to see a dragon, or something worse, watching her. Instead, she saw nothing but the same black marble corridor she kept turning on to.

"I'd turn right," said a portrait to her left, and old woman with Draco's cheekbones.

Hermione turned left at the next corner. The portraits had been helpful, for all their attempts to kill her. She'd almost tried a door that one of them recommended, only to realize that what she'd thought were decorative spikes around the doorframe looked horribly like teeth waiting to consume her once she'd passed the threshold. She'd since resolved to ignore their advice.

She took a side staircase down, counting her steps in case she'd have to go back up.

"…nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirt— woah!" She slipped on and then tumbled through a trick step. Her coat billowed up around her as she fell, whipping around her face in a sudden wind.

She slammed against the floor and twisted her ankle with an acute stab of pain.

"Lumos…" Light flared up, her guiding star in the darkness, casting long stretches of light and shadow in front of her.

The dust she'd kicked up in her arrival was just settling back to where it'd clearly been resting for years.

She attempted to stand, but her ankle gave out beneath her and she toppled forward, wand shooting from her outstretched hand as she swung her arms in a mad attempt to slow herself.

She watched helplessly as her wand clattered away before the light flickered out and she was plunged back into darkness.

"Merlin's bleeding bathrobe!" she groaned.

* * *

Draco Malfoy didn't like house-elves. He didn't trust them and he didn't find them 'cute'. Yet, he could not deny that _if _anyone knew Palais de Malfoi better than Draco himself, that anyone would be a house-elf. 

That was how he found himself in the mansion's second kitchen (The first kitchen was for those rare occasions when Narcissa felt the urge to pretend she could cook. It was to be avoided at all costs.), which was generally proportioned for house-elves.

He had to crouch to fit inside its door; but he consoled himself with the knowledge that he wouldn't be staying long.

It was lousy with elves going about their daily routines. Diminutive brown beings in tea cozies and pillowcases were washing his dishes from breakfast, readying a counter-space in which to start making his lunch, polishing ancient silver goblets and cutlery, and sweeping leftover bits of eggshell from the floor.

"Do you know where my mother put Hermione Granger's flat?" he asked the nearest elf, as though this were the sort of question one was asked on a daily basis, a question like "What time is it?" or "Where is my other sock?" or "Are you suggesting coconuts migrate?" The elf was, naturally, quite confused, but this might have had something to do with its name being Confusedy, its mother having run out of awful names ending with y (which, everyone knows, is the only way house-elves are _ever _named.) Confusedy stared up at him… confused.

"I is not knowing, master," she, he assumed it to be female by the squeaky timbre of its voice, replied.

"Well…" He though for a moment. "…did any… did anyone..." He thought it very strange to use such a personal title as 'one' on house-elves "…see anything weird last night, like a new door, maybe?"

"Drunky is saying he is seeing a new ghost this morning; but I is not listening to Drunky, master." She shook her head fervently. "Drunky is drinking too much butterbeer, I is saying. And he is scaring Scaredy!" She gestured at a small elfling crying into her potato sack.

"Where did he say he saw it?" he asked. A new ghost was worth looking into, in any case.

The only ghost who'd lived in Palais de Malfoi for centuries was a ghost-butler called Chaucer, and there were always rumors of a phantom specter called Erik who prowled the west staircases and frightened the elves, but Draco didn't believe in him.

"He is saying he is seeing it on the third floor, on the west wing. But you is not should be going there, master!" she pleaded. "_The bad one is getting you_!"

Draco scoffed and tried to stand impressively. He hit his head on the ceiling. "Oh, bollocks. Go clean something!"

* * *

Hermione wasn't afraid of the dark, she was a Gryffindor; but there was no denying its inconvenience. 

She fumbled forward on her hands and knees, bumping her head against walls and furniture. "I can't believe this…"

Finally, her hand hit on the long, solid comfort of a wand. "Oh, thank god," she breathed. "Lumos." The light flared up again, not as bright as before but helpful nonetheless. She looked curiously down at the wand. "This isn't mine…"

"Yours is over here," said a male voice to her right, she jumped around to face it. Light dimly outlined a sheet-covered couch and wax-laden candelabra. She continued turning, trying not to put weight on her bad ankle.

She was standing in a long, apparently abandoned hall, filled with dust and the ghostly forms of sheet-covered furniture. An elaborate fireplace stood dormant in the corner and dark drapes hung over windows that were no longer there. "Who's there?"

"Over here, behind the curtain," said another, female voice. She turned towards it to where a huge curtain was hung over the wall, dilapidated and dusty after years of being ignored.

She stepped forward, steeling herself for fight or flight.

One trembling hand reached out and tugged the heavy curtain back. She groaned.

It was a huge portrait, clearly having held twenty or more people when it was first painted. Now, two tiny figures sat alone in the middle of the frame.

"It's right there," said the man, who had pale skin and dark hair, pointing towards her feet. She bent to pick up her own wand.

"Then who does this belong to?" She examined the alien wand curiously.

"That's Claudia's old wand, she used to come down here every Christmas," said the woman, who had olive skin and whose hair was a dark red. "I've been hoping she'd come down looking for it."

"Is there a way out, then?" Hermione asked.

"Huh?"

"Is there a way out, then, if it would be so easy for her to come back?"

"Not for another hour or so," the woman replied.

Hermione sighed.

"Why are you here, anyway?" asked the man.

"Are you an auror?" asked the woman.

"No. I'm lost." Hermione sat.

"Oh," said the woman. "I've never been lost, but I suppose it's hard to get lost when one can only move about in the second dimension."

"I suppose," Hermione replied. She took the break in conversation to quickly fix her ankle.

"What was that for?" the woman asked.

"I twisted my ankle when I fell in," Hermione answered.

"You fell in?" The woman gasped. "How awful!"

"Is there any other way in?"

"Claudia used to come down through the door, over there." Hermione turned her wand to where the woman was pointing.

"There's nothing there."  
"And there won't be for another hour, like I said. Tell us about yourself; it isn't often that we get an auror down this way."

"I'm not an auror," Hermione snapped. "I own a shop."  
"What do you sell?" the woman asked.

"Freedom."  
"What?"

"I sell clothes to house-elves."

"Oh." The woman made a face. "Why?"

"Because house-elves should be treated as humans with feelings and fears and dreams and..."

"Okay" The woman interrupted. She made a little noise in her throat and curled up next to the man again. "I never liked house-elves."

Hermione didn't bother to force her point on a portrait. "Who are you?"

"You don't know?" The woman looked utterly aghast. "But then… you brunettes never do remember anything."

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"My name is Anastacia. I'm married to Lux." She beamed, as though nothing could make her happier than to just say his name until the end of time. "And he's Damien."

"I'm married to Loyola," he drawled, doing a spot-on impression of her doe-eyed look. Anastacia pushed him playfully.

"I'm afraid he's a bit of an arse."

He glared.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione asked. If she had an hour, she might as well be curious. "What is this place?"

"Actually, we're not quite sure. This _was_ a family portrait. But everyone left… and they didn't come back. Lux moved us. This is just a part of the old house." Anastacia answered, not bothering to breathe (but did portraits breathe, or did they just move their mouths and make the noise? Did one need breath to snore?) until she'd finished. Hermione suspected she'd had no one to talk to but Damien for quite some time. "Most of it burned down… a long long time ago… but they just built the new one over what was left… very cheap. Doubt they even know we're here."

"Otherwise they'd be sure to move us." Damien snarled. Hermione was beginning to suspect that all Malfoy men possessed that uncanny sneer after a time.

* * *

Draco's head was still throbbing when he'd got to the third floor. It took a special tact to maneuver around Palais de Malfoi without getting horribly lost; Draco didn't even think about it anymore. Left, right, left, straight, take a wide berth around that door, knock twice on that, right, left, left… He paused before a door that hadn't been there before. This would not have been so strange— doors tended to move about quite a bit in his Palais— but that such a very red door belonged on the outside of Hermione Granger's flat and not anywhere near his third-floor (He'd had that particular door slammed in his face often enough to know what it looked like on the outside.) He wrapped nervously on it. No reply. 

He breathed, tapped his wand on the keyhole and slipped inside. "Granger?" he hissed into the darkness of her entry hall. No reply. He snuck into her darkened living room. "Granger?"

He tip-toed into her bedroom, she was probably still sleeping. "Granger?" He poked nervously at her comforters. No reply. He tore them from the bed in one panicked motion. "Damn damn damn DAMN." The bed was empty.

"So here's Granger's flat… but where is Granger herself?"

* * *

"So, what are you doing here, anyway? You never properly answered me." Anastacia asked, after they'd been talking for quite some time. 

Hermione sighed. "I've been kidnapped."

"Kidnapped?" Anastacia cocked her head to the side and frowned.

"My entire flat has been picked up and dropped down in the center of this charming mansion. I have no idea where I am," she replied honestly.

"Well…" Anastacia thought for a moment. "What did you do to get yourself kidnapped?"

"I got engaged."

"Oooh… who to?" Anastacia cooed, as though that was a perfectly excusable reason to kidnap someone.

"You probably don't know him."

"I probably do."

"Draco Malfoy."

"Oooh! Has it really been that long? Last time I saw him he was two!"

"You do know him, then?"

"Know him! I practically taught the boy to talk. You know, I—"

But Hermione never knew what Anastacia knew, because in that moment there was a sound like rushing water and the wall in front of her melted away to form a gaping door.

"That's my cue…" Hermione called as she passed through the door, glad to be free of such maddening company. To her dismay it opened onto a dark stretch of doorless corridor that ended in a patch of blue-gray sky. She stepped towards the lone window and peered out. Or rather, she peered down, because she'd suddenly found herself three stories above the grassy, green, solid ground below. "Gak!" She jumped back. Heights had always been something of a concern for Hermione.

She mustered her courage and chanced another peek over the edge. This time she noticed a rickety ladder propped a few feet below. She'd have to jump a bit, but there were no other options. It would have to do.

She sidled awkwardly onto the window frame and swung her legs out. From this angle the height seemed to double. She took a deep breath, then another quick glance down before propelling herself out and down. Unfortunately for Hermione, the damaging effects of heat and rain had warped the ladder beyond use and the top rung snapped neatly in two as her feet caught it.

She slid down the steps, each one breaking apart as she screamed for something, anything to hold her.

_Crack_

_Crack_

_Crack_

_Crack_

_Crack_

_Crack_

_Crack_

"AH!" She stopped in an awkward heap at the bottom, covered in splinters and pieces of ladder but otherwise unharmed. She groaned and sat up. "This day has soured _very_ quickly."

"_Exi Echauffi_" she muttered half-heartedly, then leapt up when her pants burst into flames. "Gah! _Aquilius_!" A spurt of cold water doused the fire and she swore at the little black hole burned into her pocket. "_Exi Echaude_" she corrected. A splinter in her palm fell out. She repeated the spell until she was splinter-free, and then stood, picking bits of wood from her top and hair.

* * *

"This day has soured very quickly…" Draco spat. Hermione had not been in her flat. In fact, she had not been anywhere he had looked for her at all. Either she'd been attacked (He doubted that, though. For some sappy, romantic reason that he hated he thought he might know if she was in trouble) or she'd found a way out. 

He decided to pursue the second option and so trekked back through his Palais, down the back steps, and out into the rolling Jardin de Malfoi. After all, no palais would be complete without its very own jardin.

He stopped a passing garden-elf. "Have you seen a woman, a little shorter than me, dark brown, curly hair, possibly carrying a cat?" he asked.

The elf simply stared at him, uttered a few short squeaks and fainted away.

"Well… that was helpful." He stepped over the elf and stopped another with the same question.

"Yes." The elf nodded and continued pruning its roses.

"Where?"

"Outside."  
"Where outside?"

"She is been wanderings around the apples for long times, master. I is not knowing what is she doing."

"Great." He turned towards the rolling fields of apple trees, which he could see in the distance.

"But I is not you should be going there, master. It is being a Saturday, master."

Draco froze. "Shit."

* * *

The apple trees were very pretty, Hermione thought. It was just their season (though she suspected they'd be so ripe even if it were snowing), and the apples hanging on them were plump and red and round and perfect. It made her realize exactly how hungry she was. 

She wanted an apple.

But that would be stealing; and stealing was wrong.

She continued on, she knew she'd find the end eventually, and so going straight seemed as good a bet as going left or right.

Her stomach grumbled loudly. She had to admit, the further along she walked the riper and redder the apples seemed to be. She shook her head, as though shaking off the thought and her hunger.

Then again, it couldn't _really _be stealing if she was practically family, already, could it?

She walked forward, the sweet, intoxicating smell of sun-ripened apples connected in her mind and she knew… she was going to die of starvation if she didn't have just one apple. She reached out and let her hand rest for a moment on one cool, red-hot-red fruit. She pulled down and with a quick snap it was free in her hand. She lifted it to her lips, perfect and juicy and round and shiny and so very red…

"Are you stealing from my apple trees, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione didn't realize that, of course, there was an Enticement on the apples and that she hadn't actually been starving, she was only a little hungry, until a few hours later when she had time to think about such things. She didn't realize any of that because when she turned to face Lucius Malfoy she only had time to realize a few things before she chose to pretend she'd realized nothing.

"Of course, not, Mr. Malfoy," she simpered. "I was hungry, Draco told me I could have one."  
"Did he?"  
The first thing she realized was that she had no reason to be frightened of Lucius Malfoy. She had a wand and he did not. She could apparated and he could not. Her advantages were far better than his; he was just better at parading his about.

"Yes," she lied.

The second thing she realized was that, for the first time in their history, she was at fault and he'd been wronged. She was trespassing on _his_ property. She had stolen _his_ apple. She was about to eat _his_ apple. There was no reason for a fight and (this was the third thing she realized, and why she decided to pretend she'd realized nothing.) he didn't seem all that anxious to start one.

"Well, I should tell you that he was trying to kill you, then," he stated, as though this was not shocking news. "These apples are poisoned to anyone but a _blood_ Malfoy."

"Oh." She quickly dropped the apple. "Hm… maybe he forgot."  
"Maybe." He started to walk off. "Walk with me, Ms. Granger, today's a Saturday and so my day to be alone in the apple trees. I might kill you if I still possessed the ability." He laughed; she didn't find the joke all that funny. "I'd quite like to know why you're really here."

She saw nothing to do but obey, and so did. "I've been kidnapped."

"Oh." He didn't bother feigning real interest. "Do you like apples, Ms. Granger?"

"Yes." She'd never really thought to like apples, they were neither good nor bad, they just were. However, she figured 'Yes' was likely the safest answer.

"I do, too."

She relaxed. "Is that why you have so many?"

"Yes. But they are also a reminder… do you know the story of Adam and Eve Ms. Granger? Of course you do. Every muggle knows that story." He plucked an apple from the nearest tree and bit into it. Hermione was silently jealous. He finished chewing and swallowed before continuing on. It reminded her of Draco. (Hermione was always secretly delighted when Draco did that, it was one of those quirks that made him so very different from Ron.) "Perfect. Apples are the only things in this world that will ever be so perfect. That's a reminder, too."

"But what about Adam and Eve?" she prompted.

"Yes, of course. Adam and Eve. 'Now, the serpent was more wise—'"

"Subtle…" Hermione corrected, automatically. She'd tried to read her parents' King James Bible when she was younger. She'd only ever got through creation, but that phrase had stuck with her (as all phrases tended to).

"It was wise to be subtle in Eden, lest one be trodden on," he snapped. "'than any beast of the field which the Lord God hath made,'" he continued, as though she had not interrupted at all.

"It's wise to be subtle. Is that the reminder?" she guessed.

He ignored her. "So, you see, the serpent, wisest and most cunning of all beasts, showed Eve the way to wisdom, freedom from ignorance, the truth, as you say."  
Hermione did not recall saying, but nodded anyway.

"And yet," he continued, "he was punished, his limbs taken away… thrown unto dust."  
"But still thrives today," Hermione finished. It was a good story, but the ending was a little obvious. "Is that the reminder?"

"But still, the serpent thrives today, all over the world." He took another bite from his apple. He chewed, swallowed, and continued, "That is the reminder. That is my secret. Even when you are thrown to the dust, you can thrive, if you keep your wits about you—" _Constant vigilance! _Hermione thought "—and if you are wise enough to know when subtlety is called for."

"Don't they also represent temptation? In Snow White—"

"Muggle fairy tales have always been ruled by fear," he stated simply. "Snow White's apple is evil because muggles still cannot see the truth before their eyes, they are so blinded by a pretty story about a nice man and a pretty place. They cannot appreciate the world around them... they do not. They have to attribute its good parts to someone and its not so good parts to someone else. They have to believe that there is a place they can escape to so that they don't mind mucking about with this one. The truth is frightening to them, fear is evil, and they are not subtle enough to handle it."

"They're also very pretty." Hermione offered.

"What, muggles?"

"The apples."

"Ms. Granger, you should have been in Slytherin, and your father should have been a wizard, then maybe you might have married my son." He walked on without her, tossing the apple back over his shoulder as he went.

"Perfect," she echoed. She turned left and trekked off through the apple trees, crushing through brambles and tripping over random hedges.

* * *

He found her, after a few hours of searching the apple orchard to no avail, standing alone in the cemetery (Palais de Malfoi had everything if you looked hard enough). She was hovering at the top of a narcissus-covered hill, silently regarding a pair of white, marble angels. He approached as quietly as possible, slipping one arm around her shoulders before she could stop him. She didn't even flinch. 

"When did they die?" she asked, thoughtfully biting her thumb.

"Did you know them?" He followed her gaze to the two names carved around the angels' bases. _Anastacia Malfoy _the one on the left said, andnext to her _Damien LeBaron_. He laughed. "They didn't."

She eyed him warily.

"No, really. They didn't. They actually ran away together, just one day in July, about seventeen years ago. I believe she said something about having 'enough of this hell-hole', but my being warped might have had warping effects on my warped memory. Shall I say warped again?"

She shook her head and sat down, leaning her back against the first angel's base.

"So, anyway, rather than admitting to a scandal, Mum pretended they'd died, shipwreck or something like that, and made headstones and had a funeral and everything. Quite elaborate, really."

"They just ran away together?"

"Well, actually, me and Lucine—"

"Lucy and I."

"Me and Lucine, we were talking about it a couple of years ago, and we think that she was knocked up, probably."  
"Oh. And no-one ever forgave them?"  
"Oh, I'm pretty sure Claudia and Angelos and Kaida have, and Lux too, actually, since he married Rachel a few months later. Lucius, Loyola, mum, and Mum, however, that's a different, darker story."

She nodded. "We couldn't do that, though."  
"I know. We're mildly liked."

"And if that's not something to stick around for then I don't know what is. Which reminds me, I'm angry at you."

"Oh?" He sat down beside her and leaned against the other angel. "Wherefore?"

"Well, you moved my entire flat here without my permission, I should hex you into oblivion." He gestured for her to continue. "I've had a very bad day. My fireplace kicked my arse, my cat laughed at me, some portraits tried to kill me, a door tried to eat me, I fell through a flight of stairs, I talked to a mostly-empty picture frame for an hour in order to keep my sanity but I'm fairly certain I lost it anyway, I fell out of a window, I broke a ladder I was trying to stand on, I got covered in splinters, I set my pants on fire and so subsequently had to walk around in wet pants for half-an-hour. I almost ate a poisoned apple, and then I had to listen to your father ranting at me about the state of the muggle world when all I wanted was a little food. It's dinnertime and I haven't even had breakfast. And on top of that, NO-ONE BOUGHT ME FLOWERS." She paused. "_I'm Tired._"  
He laughed against her shoulder.

"Shut up. I'm tired."

"So you've said." She made a face. He reached behind him and picked a handful of Narcissus. "Did you say you wanted flowers?"

"Mmm." She took them from him and hid her face in the cheap white blossoms.

"I didn't kidnap you, by the way." She didn't respond, so he continued. "My mum thought it was a good idea, that's all. She's not malicious or anything… she's just got this real rose-tinted view of the universe. I've been trying to save you all day… just so you know…"

"I know." Her voice was muffled by the makeshift bouquet. "So what are we gonna do?"

He sighed. "I need you to leave."

She didn't look up. "What do you mean?"  
"You can't stay here; my house will eat you. And trust me, that's exactly what my mum has planned, at least subconsciously. That and mani-pedi parties."

"Mani-pedi parties?"  
"If you don't attend I'll have to."

"Oh." He watched the top of her head for a long moment.

"So, are you gonna go yet?"

"Hm?" She looked up so that he could only just see her eyes, newborn tears pulling at her lashes.

"I'm sorry Granger, you've just got to go." She crawled over and placed one barely-blooming narcissus in his top buttonhole.

"Forget-me-not," she giggled, brushing one swift kiss across his unprepared lips, so fast that it seemed more a shared breath than an actual kiss.

"Oh, please, Granger. We both know you'll be back tomorrow."

* * *

When she got there he was painting the front porch (the front porch she'd always said he should get, but which he'd never gotten until she was too far away to know), passing the spongy roller over freshly-sanded boards, the way her father had taught him to that summer he'd come to stay with them ("Yes, I know magic can do it faster; but is it quiet so satisfying as having done it by hand?"). 

He was painting it a deep, rusty orange. When he reached the edge little droplets of rust dripped down onto a row of hedges four feet below, covering them in smatterings of paint that made them bleed ginger. He drew the roller back and forth over the creases, the stretches of smooth board, pushing the extra layers away in simple, graceful motions (Mr. Granger had made them paint the porch for their keep, they'd gotten very good at it).

He had the radio blaring "The Weird Sisters, Live: The Voldemort Tour". He was screeching along to "On Paper Cut" and so her appearance went unnoticed. She stood in the hedges and watched him above her for a few long moments.

_It all works out on paper/ It all works out on paper/ It all works out on paper/ 'til, girls, girls, girls, girls, gi-i-irls, that paper cuts…_

She cleared her throat. He stopped singing long enough to look up. There was a smudge of paint on the tip of his nose. She wondered how it'd gotten there. He looked like he had a nosebleed. For a moment she froze. He froze. The radio kept playing and little droplets of not-yet-dried paint dripped trails of orange onto the ground below. They were two deer caught in violently opposing headlights.

_It all works out on paper…_

The crash was inevitable.

"Hullo, Ron. Did you know you've got paint on your nose? Right there…"

_Girls ought to know that paper cuts…_


	22. Interlude: A Ronald Story: Part I

**"'You should write a book,' Ron told Hermione as he cut up his potatoes, 'translating mad things girls do so boys can understand them.'"****– _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_**

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

_Interlude: A Ronald Story: Part I_

**In which Ron is nervous and Hermione comes out of the closet.**

**_June 12, 1997_**

"Everything ready?" Ron pushed on the door; but a firm hand slammed it shut again, narrowly missing his nose.

"We're not dressed!" two muffled female voices shouted.

"Well, hurry up! I want to see you before I go get her."

"What, would you have us go out in our knickers?" Ginny's voice snapped. Ron flushed. "I thought not. Just get going, we'll be set by the time you get back."

"Alright," he grumbled. "Just hurry up."

"Go!"

He rolled his eyes and bustled off. "Women…"

The entry hall was packed. Students and teachers alike ran from side to side, tossing feathers and glitter into the air or pulling on sequin-covered suits and dresses. Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall were transfiguring the huge staircase on the west side so that it was covered in silver plating. Hagrid was propping up royal blue electric guitars and large black basses at its base, humming something barely recognizable as the wedding march as he did so. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown were waving their arms in practiced windmills on the top step. Ron wrung his hands as more time passed. They were _already_ behind schedule…

"Oi!" He spotted a welcome face across the hall. "Harry!" Harry stopped practicing spells under his breath and looked up. Ron ran over to where he was standing. "Have you seen her?"

"No, mate; but I'd guess she's waiting for you."

"Right. Of course. I'm being… I'm going." Ron turned to go.

"Good luck!" Harry called after him. "You don't need it."

"Like hell I don't!" Ron called back over his shoulder.

The day could not have been going worse. He was going to ask Hermione Granger to marry him, and the fabulous presentation he'd planned was falling apart before his eyes. He was going to bring her down and be greeted by one sparkly mess.

He started towards the library. He'd told Hermione to meet him outside of a quidditch supply closet in that area. He figured that if he were late, as he was, she could run to the library and get some 'light reading' to occupy herself until he arrived. Ron congratulated himself on truly having thought of everything.

They'd only officially been dating for a month; but Ron felt like he'd been courting her for years. 'The Great Seven Year Build-Up' as Ginny called it. True, they had waited a while before finally admitting their mutual feelings. But they were young, they had time. That was also true, they _were_ young. Some might say too young to be engaged, but there was a difference between engagement and marriage. Ron figured they'd wait a few years to tie the knot, by proposing he was simply setting up the strings. It was more a promise than a commitment.

He paused for a breath before turning onto their predetermined hallway, the hallway where destiny awaited his arrival, though she had yet to know it. "Here goes everything…" He exhaled and rounded the corner, trying to stand up straighter, prouder, more boldly. The corridor was empty. He allowed himself to slouch and walked to the closet. He paused. It was not like Hermione to be late. He looked up and down the hall. Nothing. Before he could even process the possibilities, the closet opened and a familiar weight bowled him over.

"Oh, Ron. Hello." Hermione smiled, a forced attempt to cover an emotion he couldn't quite pin. "You're late."

"What were you doing in the closet?" He stood, her sudden appearance having knocked them both to the floor.

"I wanted to surprise you." She took his offered hand and pulled herself up.

He eyed her quizically, but knew there was no time to questionher further. "Well then, I'm surprised. Shall we go?"

"Where to?"  
"It's a surprise." He grinned and took her arm.

"Can it wait? I've still got to pack."

"No." He replied simply. "Trust me, you're going to love it."

* * *

A/N: This was a short chapter, even for an interlude, but it couldn't have been any longer. Trust me, you will eventually find out how the proposal went, but from another character's point of view. Next chapter is tres important, and as I'm on spring break will likely be up very soon. Love and kisses, review if you feel like it. 


	23. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

**"****Rita Skeeter better shut her mouth before she gets in trouble.**

**Rita Skeeter better shut her mouth before she gets in trouble.**

**Rita Skeeter better shut her mouth before she incurs**

**the wrath of Hermione,**

**'cause it's bound to be worse than**

**Rita Skeeter better shut her mouth before she gets in trouble…"**

**- _The Wrath of Hermione, _Harry and the Potters**

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

**In which Rita Skeeter has fun being Rita Skeeter and****Ginny wears Kyle's T-shirt to breakfast...**

**_September 28, 2003_**

Rita Skeeter was having a good day. She'd spent the majority of it pretending to write a story about Bali's new beater (the old one having been bludgeoned into a coma), who, it turned out, had had quite an extensive career in the skin-flick industry; this according to Ludo Bagman's assistant's brother's iguana's aunt's husband's nephew (who was improbably human). He was a bit near-sighted but claimed beyond a doubt that he'd seen her grace the pages of both "Magic Stick" and "Witches Gone Wild". Who was Rita to argue with such a reliable source?

She'd spent the rest of it pondering the nature of peace; if the nature of peace was a certain upcoming wedding between two of the wizarding world's most overrated people, if Rita did say so herself; and she did say so, often.

What _had _Draco Malfoy and/or Hermione Granger done to get themselves so famous, so _in_famous, so… _popular_? What, Rita wondered, had they done that made them deserving of a _celebrity_ status? The answer came quickly. Nothing. Draco Malfoy was nothing but hair and money. Hermione Granger was… Rita felt her grip on the solid world sliding away and stopped. Being trapped in a glass jar did terrible things to one's psychological well-being.

_Here. Now. Desk. Chair. _She ran unsteady hands over the desktop and let out the breath she'd been unconsciously holding. _Good girl._

She looked nervously over her shoulder, adjusted her glasses and turned back to the blank notepad she'd been scrutinizing. Hermione Granger was going down. She wasn't sure when, she wasn't sure how, but that bitch was going to crash and burn… eventually.

'Hermione Granger' she wrote; and then, as a poetic afterthought, 'Reap what you sow.'

She sat back and chewed on the end of her quill. Granger had been very good at keeping her nose clean over the past few years. She hadn't even been _seen_ with Potter or Weasley for two years. She'd been living very cleanly, except for the two obvious lapses in judgment that were her fiancé and unborn child.

Rita frowned. It was all just a little _too_ clean.

Rita knew all about secrets, she made her living on them. Rita _liked_ secrets; not hers, on a general basis, but other people's were quite useful. She couldn't believe it when Witch Weekly's Inga Thorne, a promising talent who wore the wrong shade of lipstick, called her a "dime-a-dozen gossip who worked to dig up other people's private confidences". Rita didn't need to _work _to dig up other people's secrets; most of them came and found _her_. As a result she spent her weekdays (and weekends, for that matter) up to her rhinestone-encrusted glasses in them, it was simply a matter of brushing cheap rumors (who had a new boyfriend, who was being fired) away from real, solid-gold secrets (who had a new boyfriend _while_ keeping the old, who was being fired for sleeping with their boss's wife). Those secrets were worth keeping, and so consequently worth spreading.

Hermione Granger was keeping a secret. Rita could taste it like blood on the air. Granger had been too good at keeping it, whatever 'it' was, a secret thus far. Sooner or later she was going to crash. It was simply a matter of Rita being there with gasoline and matches.

"Ms. Skeeter?" a nameless intern rapped on the edge of her cubicle.

"Yes?" she snapped. Rita did a lot of snapping at interns.

"Call for you on grate one."

"Right." Rita stopped chewing on her quill long enough to grab the notepad (you never knew who might be calling), stand and sweep past the intern. She made her way past countless identical cubicles and to grate one, which was an no-nonsense-looking fireplace seated between a row of secretaries and the men's restroom. A woman's heavily-made-up head was floating in the violet flames. "Charisse! Darling!" Rita gushed and pulled a stool up to the hearth. "And to what, _or whom_, do I owe this pleasure?"

Charisse Tyler smiled smugly. She was on the verge of spilling someone else's solid-gold secret, Rita could tell. Rita knew secrets. "Hermione Granger."

Rita was listening.

* * *

Kyle was making breakfast when Ginny woke up. She dragged herself out of bed and to the kitchen to the tune of egg-beaters whisking across bowls and the WWN's morning announcer crooning a set of old muggle standards. 

She'd been having a very good dream, she thought. She couldn't quite remember what it was about, but it had been very good. She yawned. Strands of red hair were falling in to her eyes, but she wasn't really looking where she was going, so it mattered very little. This might explain how she came to walk into the kitchen, kiss Kyle on the cheek, pour herself a glass of orange juice and not notice the Grangers until she was nearly sitting in Mr. Granger's lap.

"Gah!" Orange juice slopped all down her front as she jumped back. "Ah shit… I mean…" she fumbled. "er…by golly gee whiz!" She handed the now-empty glass to Kyle's waiting hand and backed slowly towards the door, painfully aware that Kyle's t-shirt and a pair of pink knickers did not make a complete outfit. "Hope you all slept well I'm… I'm going to get the paper…" She turned and darted back through the door.

She'd have to attach a note to her door for tomorrow.

"Ginny!" Jeanie called as she walked past the Granger's room.

"Yes?" Ginny asked, rubbing sleep from her eyelashes.

Jeanie produced two skirts from her magic pink bag. "The black or the green?"

"Where are you going?"

"Breakfast."

Ginny's yawned. "You're wearing a skirt to breakfast?"

"Yes." Jeanie gestured to the skirts again. "So, which one?"

"What are you doing later today?"

"Oh, no silly! I'm not wearing the skirt to anything _after_ breakfast. It's freezing out there!"

Ginny's tired mind still couldn't comprehend. "So you're getting dressed for like… fifteen minutes of eggs?"

"Yes. So, which one?"

"What shirt are you wearing with it?"

"I dunno. I'm choosing my skirt first. Then shirt, shoes, stockings, and, finally, accessories."

Ginny cocked her head to one side. "Are you sure you're only going to breakfast?"

"Yes. Which one?"

"Did you just wake up?"

"No. I woke up two hours ago. Which bleeding one?"

"Oh." Ginny yawned again. "You've been agonizing over skirt detail for two hours?"

"No!" Jeanie snapped, her voice taking on a bossy, brassy tone not unlike Hermione's. "Which one?"

"What have you been doing, then?"

"I've spent the past two-hours very efficiently, for your information. I've showered, shaved, tweezed, washed my face, straightened my hair, very difficult, mind, since you don't have any outlets handy, I had to walk across the street and ask this man who owned a pizzeria if I could use his electricity. I've swabbed, moisturized, foundation-ed, lipstick-ed, eyeshadow-ed, mascara-ed, blushed, rouged, contoured, highlighted, powdered, and blow-dried. I've painted my fingernails and my toenails. I also did three-hundred crunches and forty-two push-ups. I did my pilates and now I need you to tell me which skirt I ought to wear to breakfast. Come on, Gin. You're putting me majorly behind schedule."

"The black one, then." Ginny sighed and slouched away.

"Ginny Weasley, you're a goddess." Jeanie called after her.

_I wish. _Ginny thought. _If I was a goddess I wouldn't have to settle for Kyle's T-shirt._

She grabbed a pair of jeans off of her dresser and decided that she was too hungry to brush her hair. She picked the _Daily Prophet_ from the windowsill and walked back to breakfast.

They were eating omelets when she got back. Kyle had set one out for her, tomatoes and peppers with a little mozzarella just the way she liked it. She sat down and picked at it, setting the _Prophet _at her elbow.

"Can I see that?" Kyle asked, not waiting for a response before reaching across the table to take the paper. Ginny watched him unfold it, absentmindedly watching the back page.

The Grangers were talking about the shopping they were going to do that afternoon. Ginny tuned them out and floated into omelet land, where it was just her, her omelet, and the back of the paper.

She'd been not-really-watching a black-and-white picture of a man and woman kissing before she realized exactly what she was seeing and grabbed the paper from Kyle's hands.

"Hey! I was—"

"No, you weren't," she snapped.

By this time she had the entire table's attention. "What is it?" Mrs. Granger asked, peering over her shoulder. "Oh my… that can't mean anything good."

"I can't say anything I might actually mean in your presence, Mrs. Rebecca." Kyle said, once he'd got around the table and seen the picture. "But your daughter is possibly the most indecisive person I have ever had the pleasure of meeting."

"I'll say." Ginny bit her lip nervously. "I can't imagine what Ron thinks he's doing."

The picture showed no one but Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, sitting on a park bench and being deeply engrossed in, Ginny cringed, each other.

"I will say this, things are going to be very interesting tomorrow."

At that moment the door opened and Jeanie walked in, yawning and stretching as though she'd just woken up. "Hm…" She saw them all gathered round the paper and stopped. "What'd I miss?"

* * *

A/N: Review if you feel like. I hope you feel like, though, reviews just make my days! 

P.S. Jewel- absolutely I did it on purpose. I was reading the phantom book at thetime (soooooo good)because I'm obsessed with the soundtrack/movie/play (and now the book, as well). I was surprised anyone caught it, but go you for surprising me (but especially for knowing that his name is/was/whatever tense you would put hereErik)


	24. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

**"There is no revenge so complete as forgiveness." – Josh Billings**

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

**In which Hermione can't find the bathroom and Ron eats generic-brand cereal**

**_September 28, 2003_**

When Hermione found herself in Ginny's room at the burrow, a framed photo of the entire Weasley family watching her expectantly from atop a small blue nightstand, she was perfectly ready to believe that the past three years had all been a dream. She wasn't certain how she felt about that; it had been such a very _strange_ dream. On the one hand, she'd woken up with the most wonderful feeling in the pit of her stomach. She'd felt wanted… warm, fuzzy and bunny-like all-over. It had been a bit like the first day after Ron proposed, multiplied to an almost painful degree. She'd felt loved. Then the feeling had faded, and she'd felt very alone… and dirty. Dirty was the operative word.

She was so dirty that she deserved to lose that fuzzy feeling.

Then she thought about Ron… good, mostly dependable Ron. A sliver of the feeling returned, and she convinced herself that the space inside her was hunger.

There, she had no _real_ reason to feel dirty at all. It _was_ just a dream, however real it might have felt; and she had no control over her dreams. _It wasn't her fault._

Of course she felt nothing for Draco Malfoy; he was probably just an embodiment of all her recent problems with Ron… that would be logical. He was an arrogant, rude, pig-headed prick, everything Ron was at his worst… it was so obvious. Her subconscious was telling her something about a silver lining. She didn't especially care, so long as she could say she didn't love Draco Malfoy.

True, she realized with a sharp stab of cold, white fear, her subconscious had probably chosen him out of guilt, as well; but that was just silly. It hadn't even been a Real Kiss.

At least, that's what she told herself when she couldn't sleep.

And then she sat up. It was funny how different the world looked when one changed perspectives. With the light pink comforter pushed back and the entire room laid before her, she knew she hadn't been dreaming.

Three years previous, when she'd been staying in the burrow and anxiously awaiting the arrival of October 5th, the room had been littered with her personal items, T-shirts sloppily re-folded and thrown into the over-flowing closet, the remains of ill-fated wedding magazines strewn across the floor. She remembered a poster of Alice Cooper, long black eyeliner-tears contrasted against moving, smiling pictures of everyone Ginny had ever loved. There'd been a lot of posters, she remembered. Now, the room was as empty as if it had always been a guest room. The walls had been cleaned, the posters replaced with framed pictures of flowers and puppies. The only sign that anyone had spent the night there was her suitcase propped stiffly against the closed closet door.

She brought her knees to her chest and watched the suitcase warily. She'd only had time to pack the essentials, her toothbrush, wand, some family photos and the rings she'd given… er…herself. She hadn't been thinking about clothes, money, books… anything, really. She'd been in such a hurry just to get out of that hellhole her fiancé (whatever remained of that dirty feeling had been pushed to the fringes of her consciousness, where, she realized with a tainted sadness, it had been all along.) called home.

But then, one had no real need of clothing if one had no intention of ever getting out of bed, did one? No; and if she did need clothes she could just borrow some from Ginny. Never mind how Ginny herself might feel about it.

She glanced away from the suitcase and over the pants-clad tops of her kneecaps to her toes; which wiggled in response to her wandering gaze. They were sloppily painted a very tasteful shade of pale pink… or was it baby pink? But then really, what was the difference? None; and did she care? Not really. She was really just avoiding the situation at hand, if it could be called a situation at all. It was very un-Gryffindor of her. She'd been spending too much time around Slytherins and people of a Slytherin nature.

Reluctantly, she turned away from her toenails and lay back down among the fluffy white pillows and baby/pale-pink comforter.

The situation at hand.

Hermione had developed, in the early stages of her life, a logical, outside-in view of everything around her, even her own emotions. When something she was feeling confused her, or caused her to be particularly upset, she simply allowed herself to step back and examine it. She'd learned most things about herself by analyzing the insults thrown at her.

Now, she'd felt dirty. Well, she'd always felt dirty, she supposed. She'd felt dirty ever since… she couldn't even phrase it properly in her own mind. To say she'd "left Ron" held far too many negative connotations. Though, of course, she _had_ left him; but it had been as much for his good as her own. To say she'd "gone away" was the understatement of the century. A year-and-two-months spent locked up inside yourself, far away from everyone you loved, was more than "going away". Hermione called it a Departure From Reality.

To say she'd "run away", as Harry had put it, made it seem as though she'd just sat up one night and decided not to get married. Well, she admitted, it _had _seemed that way at the time. She didn't realize until later, while watching Draco being sunburned on a white-sand beach, that it had taken her years to leave.

She hadn't felt dirty at the time… no, that was a lie. She had scrubbed herself raw trying to beat off the gnawing grip of filthy guilt with soap and loufha.

And then, they'd go tanning, or they'd be taking their afternoon nap, or Draco'd decide that, for reasons unknown, it was the appropriate time to go swimming with dolphins, and she felt so clean that all dirtiness was forgotten. She was so clean that she had to analyze it. Her mind was scrubbed so cleanly that all it could give her was one word, sneaking up from the depths of her subconscious.

_Love._

Love was clean. For an entire year love was clean. Love was a Dream that stretched into the broadest stretches of her mind; and then she'd said, "Let's go home for Christmas…" and The Dream was broken.

As it turned out, no one had taken The Dream quite so well as the dreamers themselves.

Yelling, screaming, kicking, biting, broken china splintered across her floor, mingled amongst the pieces of The Dream.

It was a moment before she noticed the big, lonely tear rolling down her cheek.

Tears, sneers that broke her heart more than he could know.

She wiped it away on one of the pillows. It left a dark, wet spot on the lace.

Floo powder, broken and spilling purple glitter across her carpet.

She'd told him to go.

She remembered a card he sent her for Valentines. "Love means never needing to say you're sorry." Yeah, right. There was always something to apologize for. Love meant knowing when it was needed. Love meant being ready with a big roll of spellotape and chocolates to fix the little daily rips. Love meant always being ready to forgive.

A bouquet and a smile on her doorstep.

She'd never apologized. She'd never apologized for telling him to go. They'd never talked about it. They never spoke of what happened when peer pressure drew the long straw and Love got the shaft. They didn't need to, she knew. It was understood.

He'd gone. She'd analyzed it. She'd needed the time to know it. She needed to know that she loved him; and love was clean.

It was understood, but that didn't stop her from feeling dirty.

_She'd never said sorry._

It was a pattern with her, she'd found, to beat herself up over things that didn't need changing.

Hermione was a very logical girl. She knew that if she went messing around with relationships that didn't need and wouldn't sustain messing around with, bad things were likely to happen. So, she wasn't _going_ to apologize.

She'd gone for three-years feeling unclean and she was just going to have to go on feeling so.

She sat up on her elbows and took in the room for the second time. Better. Much better.

Who did she love? Draco Malfoy. She knew that much with a certainty that filled her entire being.

Why did she love him? It mattered very little. She just did.

And the dirty feeling? She felt bad because she hadn't loved him enough, and she'd never said sorry.

So, what was she going to do about it? Marry Draco Malfoy.

Much better.

Analysis complete, she sat up and swung her baby/pale-pink toes onto the carpeted floor. She was wearing the only pieces of clothing she'd bothered to bring, and so changing was not an option, for the moment.

She schlumped out, only to find that the bathroom was not where memory said it ought have been. She warily started down the stairs, checking every unfamiliar room for a toilet and mirror of some sort. Nothing. She was in the kitchen, taking the bowl of cereal that Ron handed her and sitting down, before she even noticed where she was.

"Oh… thank you." She watched the whole-wheat letters float in and out of word forms on the surface of slightly rainbow-colored milk.

"You already said that," he said.

"Oh." She took the spoon he handed her and began to eat, suddenly ravenous. It had been over twenty-four hours since she'd had food in any form, and even the lowliest of generic-brand cereal was welcomed. "Thank you."

"Your welcome." He placed his bowl on the table across from her, behind a vase of yellow daffodils, and sat. She could only see a flash of red hair and stubble through the stems.

"You're growing a beard," she remarked. Had it been so long since she had actually taken the time to look at Ron?

"No." The bit of pink cheek she could see through the flowers burned red. "I just haven't shaved yet."

"Oh." She hurried to fill her mouth with another spoonful of A-Z's.

They sat in empty silence for a few long moments, words replaced by the monotonous crunching of D's and J's.

Finally, a tiny black and white saw-whet owl swooped in through the open window and dropped the _Daily Prophet_ with an ominous _smack!_

Ron stood, retrieving the five knuts from a dish on the countertop. "Here you are." He paid the owl, which hooted softly and swept back from whence it came.

Hermione reached out and took the _Prophet_ from beside the vase.

Hermione had developed a peculiar way of opening the newspaper when she was at the impressionable age of eight. Her parents having imposed a rule which called for her to read one news article per comic strip, she developed a technique of speed reading that allowed her to read a comic (her town's local paper put their comics on the back page) in the split second in which the back page was facing her. Then she would flip the paper over and leave it for her father to read.

Even though she no longer read comics, she still instinctively unfolded the paper backwards and scanned the back page before flipping it over.

"What the hell…"

It wasn't every day that she caught sight of her own face mid-speed-read.

* * *

A/N: Review? Please? 


	25. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

**"…Baby, everything is falling into place. **

**Oh, my life is so exciting now I've got my space, **

**like a splash of water on my face…"– _Holding My Own_, The Darkness**

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

**In which Hermionelikes normal namesand Ron mourns his high-tops. **

**_September 28, 2003_**

"Britain's Favorite Witch-About-Town Changes Her Mind… Again," the headline declared, immortalized in bold, brazen, black letters. Below it was a photo of Hermione and Ron snogging in some unimportant park. The caption read, "Granger's renewed relationship with Cannon's manager Weasley is just the latest in a string of scandalous events surrounding the elfin-rights activist."

"Rita Skeeter has _really_ gone too far…" she spat. Ron had come around the table to see what she was looking at.

"Is that...?"

"Us? Yes." She interrupted. "But this picture is over three-years-old."

"How can you tell?" he asked, snatching the paper away to examine the photo.

"Well, first of all, I haven't kissed you in about three years," she snapped.

To her surprise, he laughed. "That's true." He tossed it back to the table.

"And second of all, you're still wearing those awful yellow trainers you had seventh year."

He raised an eyebrow curiously and leaned over to examine the cited footwear. "That too. Whatever happened to them?"

"You don't remember?" She laughed.

"Of course I do, I was just testing you. You stole them off of my feet when I was sleeping and—"

"—and sent them to Charlie to be burned, that's right. You didn't talk to me for a month."

"I liked those shoes."

"They were _awful_!"

"They were mine!" As much as he was trying to sound angry, he just couldn't cover the laughter coming up from somewhere deep in his abdomen, where it had been waiting patiently for three years.

And she was laughing, too. "They were hideous!"

"That doesn't make them any less mine!"

"They were awful!"

"And?"

"I hated them!"

"Well, now that you've given that _convincing_ argument."

"Glad you've seen the light."

The laughter sidled out the way it had come, and they sat in companionable silence for a moment.

"I've missed you, Hermione."

"I've missed you, too." And it was true. Draco was great for arguing with, she'd known that even before she kissed him; but he just wasn't as _silly_ as Ron could be. Draco's arguments made sense, up to a point, whereas Ron just argued for the sake of competition. She'd missed that.

"You could have come to see me."

"And you were just running to come visit my flat, right?" 

"I couldn't go to _your_ flat."

"And why not?" she snapped.

"I'd look like a stalker!"

She laughed. "Please, not that old spell."

"And you didn't come see me, either."

"What, with everyone in the wizarding world telling me you wanted me dead I should have just walked up to the front door and ask you around for tea?"

He look startled. "I never wanted you dead. Why would I want you dead?"

"I don't know. Maybe because I ran off with your rival five days before our wedding? Or maybe you were still sore about the trainers?"

"Please, not that old spell. It's been three years, Hermione. I'm over you."

She scoffed. "That's impossible. Noone gets 'over' Hermione Granger."

"Oh, I'm sorry, shall I slyly try to win back your affections?"

She gestured towards the prophet. "That's what Rita Skeeter seems to be expecting."

He laughed. "Oh, then. We mustn't disappoint Rita Skeeter."

"Oh no, we mustn't."

He cleared his throat. "Hermione Granger, will you take me back?"

"No." She laughed. He laughed. They laughed.

"Damn. I'm heartbroken."

He stood and walked over to the ice-cupboard.

"I did love you, you know." She said.

He took out two bottles of butterbeer and closed the cupboard door. "I know."

"Just, not the way you wanted me to."

"I know."

"And that wasn't fair to you, I think."

"I know, Hermione, I know. You can stop apologizing. I loved you, too."

"I know."

"I mean, I do love you. I care about what happens to you, but I don't want to marry you."

She took one of the butterbeers. "Aren't we a little old for butterbeer?"

"You're never too old for butterbeer."

"Well, then, isn't it a bit early?"

"For celebrating? No." His bottle opened with a crisp, icy sigh.

"What are we celebrating?"

"Your engagement, your baby, my trainers." He took the liberty of opening hers for her. "To awesome friends." He clinked the bottles together and handed hers back across the table.

"To highlighter-yellow high-tops," she laughed and took a sip.

"About this baby..." he began.

"Yes?" she sighed. She was going to have to tell him; but for the moment, life was much too good to bother with details.

"I was thinking Ronald for a boy, Ronette for a girl, eh?"

"Ronette?"

"Ronnie for short."

"I think not."

"What, then, have you already decided?"

"Yes," she lied. "Something normal."

"Like what?"

She thought for a second, "Clare for a girl."

"Clare?" He made a face. "Why?"

She scoffed. "Why not?"

"It's so… normal."

"What, would you rather have me name her Apple?"

"Apple? What for?"

She sighed. "Just a conversation I had with Lucius yesterday, that's all."

"You call him _Lucius_?"

"He _is_ my fiancé's father, it's only natural that we be on a first-name basis." That was a lie, Hermione would never have called Mr. Malfoy Lucius to his face, she'd be too frightened. It was something rebellious she did behind his back that made her feel special.

"Hasn't he told you to call him 'Lucy' yet?"

"Merlin, you _are_ as immature as I remember."

"I only—" He was cut off by his sister tumbling headfirst out of the kitchen fireplace.

"Don't do it!" Ginny stood, brushing soot off of her jeans and too-large T-shirt. "Don't do it, Ron!"

"Ginny, what _are_ you talking about?" Ron asked.

"DontgobacktothatwhoreshesjustgoingtoleaveyouagainlikeshedidlasttimeletherhaveherstupidMalfoysshedeservesthemjustdontdoit!" She said, and then fainted away from the sheer effort of not breathing.

"Well… I suppose I ought to take her home…" He sighed. "She really shouldn't read the Daily Prophet anymore. She can't just go interrupting my breakfast every time she reads something offensive." He lifted Ginny up onto his shoulder with one arm and grabbed a handful of floo powder with the other. He turned back to Hermione before going. "I really am glad that you've come to stay, Hermione." He threw the floo powder down and stepped onto the hearth. "Diagon Alley!" In a whirl of roaring emerald green flames he and Ginny were gone and Hermione was left with a swirling bowl of soggy flakes and pink milk, a fuzzy, bunny-like feeling beginning to spread through her stomach.

* * *

A/N: Sorry if last chapter was a little confusing. Of course Hermione still loves Draco, they're meant for eachother. However, I don't think a heartbroken Draco is avoidable, if you'll recall that necklace that hermione is STILL WEARING.

Review? Please?


	26. Interlude: A Hermione Story: Part I

**"Picnics have to be one of summer's most overlooked, understated joys. Where else can you tickle your toes in the grass while dribbling peanut butter and jelly down the front of your blouse?" – Celeste Perrino Walker**

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

_Interlude: A Hermione Story: Part I_

**In which Draco is a big softie and Hermione finds that happiness is a sandwich… **

_**March 3, 2001**_

The sky was the most remarkable shade of blue…the kind of blue that you claim to remember, but which time and a flawed imagination inevitably fade …the kind of blue that leaves you with nothing but the surprise on your face and a faint memory of dandelion chains. They'd "stolen" a big, fluffy white blanket from the cabana and laid it out on the warm, white beach, two shots of dark, sweet, silver rum drying on their lips and forming heady, idealistic schemes of young love and picnics in their sun-warmed minds.

It was spontaneous and perfect.

He poured the drinks, voluptuous glasses of coral 'sex on the beach' and amber pumpkin-wine coolers, and she made sandwiches.

When they were done and there was nothing left to do but feast, they sprawled out in the center of the blanket, a tangle of limbs and blonde-brown hair, slightly stupid from too much happiness.

Hermione ate her late lunch— or was it dinner? — and let the sky watch her cuddling with the enemy. Everyone is a friend when they come with liquor.

"Chocolate or vanilla?" Draco asked. She didn't bother to ask why, conversation was slow in coming and so words were not to be questioned.

"Chocolate," she replied, yawning into his shirt. He smelled like peaches. "Shampoo or conditioner?"

"One without the other?" He somehow found the energy to gasp. "Cake or brownies?"

"Brownies. Inside or outside?"

"Inside… nature is evil."  
"Draco?" she giggled. He was so very cute.

"Yes?"

"This _is_ nature." She shielded her eyes against the sun with one hand and made a wide sweeping gesture with the other, letting her hand stop on the top of his head.  
"Yes, but we have a blanket."

"Oh, yes. How could I have forgotten?" It _wa_s a very nice blanket. "Your turn."

"Right, er… strawberry or apple?"

"Strawberry."

"Good." He squeezed his eyes shut against the blinding blue sky.

She didn't bother asking why this was a good thing. It was likely just another part of his infamous 'mystery'. "Maths or Science?"

"Huh?"

"Oh, sorry, I forgot." She thought for a moment. "Arithmancy or Potions?"

"That's easy. Potions."  
"Why?"

"It's easy. Love or money?"

"Well…" She pretended to think. "…Money. I'm at a picnic with you, aren't I?"

He snorted. It made her head jump on his stomach.

"Did you just snort?"

"No." He quickly suppressed any further pig-like noises. "Your turn"

She was silent for a moment, and then "Okay, I've got it." Dramatic pause. "The Backstreet Boys or NSYNC?"

"The Backstreet Boys… I mean…" He cleared his throat. "I'm afraid, darling, that I haven't the slightest inkling of whom you are talking."

She laughed. Hard. "_The Backstreet Boys_, Draco? Are you harboring a secret Nick Carter obsession you'd like to tell me about?"

"No…like I say, I have no idea who you're talking about," he lied, badly.

"I mean, I thought you'd be more of an NSYNC person, but…"

"GAH!" he yelped as though in pain. "Draco Malfoy is _far _too masculine for those nancy-boys."

"Nancy-boys?"

"I stand by my choice of words."

"And the _Backstreet Boys _are masculine!" She huffed and sat up.

He seemed ready to refute, but then thought better of it and snapped, "Like I said, I take no interest in your pathetic muggle boy bands."

She sighed. "Your turn, then."

"Flowers or candy?"

She thought about it while lying down again. "Flowers."

"Really?" He rested one hand on her stomach, playing with the skin just above her bikini line. She pretended not to notice

"Yeah, why?"

"You can tell a lot about a girl from that sort of question."

"Like what?"

He mulled it over for a moment and then, "Well, a girl who chooses chocolates isn't worried about her weight."  
She snickered. "I'm not worried about my weight."

"Then you don't know yourself very well."

"No?"

"No."

She absent-mindedly ran her fingers up the side of his hand. "You're a very self-assured person, has anyone ever told you that?"

"I tell myself that every day. It's your turn."

"Chocolate or… The Spice Girls." She was feeling a bit silly.

"The who?"

She snorted.

"Did you just snort?"

"No," she lied. "Really, chocolate or the spice girls?"

"Really, the who?"

"It's not funny anymore, Malfoy."

"And I was never joking, Granger."

"Ugh…" was all she could manage. "I'll introduce you when…" she'd been about to say 'when we get back', but then remembered that she didn't want to think about that. "…when I find one of their recordings."

"Mmm." He groaned.

"You have a very soft stomach," she concluded; and promptly fell asleep.

* * *

She woke up when the first raindrop hit her cheek. The blue sky had been hijacked by a pack of renegade black clouds set on ruining her nap. Thunder was rolling in the distance. She was being carried. She looked up. _Who'd have thought he had the strength? _she mused, and then cuddled back into his shoulder, simultaneously deciding that she should not mention it later, and wondering that he still smelled like peaches.

* * *

When next Hermione awoke, she was curled up in their doorway. Draco was drinking his 'sex on the beach' and watching the rain. She didn't move for a long moment, afraid that she'd break his trance. She watched the wind play tricks with his bangs, his eyes seeming to contain the entire grey world.

Lightening struck nearby and she jumped, forcefully snapping his reverie.

"Finally, I thought you'd died," he snapped.

"Why are we here?" she asked, sleepily feigning confusion.

"Well, it's raining, see, and…"

"I meant how did I get here," she interrupted. "I can see that it's raining. Did you carry me?"

He snorted. "No, it took three levitating charms. I'm not carrying your fat arse."

"Of course you wouldn't, I'd sue you for sexual harassment."

"Of course you would, love." He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, like a kid in a drive-in.

It was spontaneous and perfect.

* * *

A/N: Alright. Sorry that took so long. I'm lazy. I'm still trying to get this out before HBP (I am SOOOOOOOO excited for that but anyway)

Review please! Reviews make my LIFE, even the bad ones. Constructive critisism helps me growand please... no spamming. Don't post the entire first chapter of your story on here, I had someone do that and honestly, it was the most obnoxious thing I've ever seen anyone do. Just... ack. It made me mad. Ah well, love you all (and really, I do. You have no idea how much it means that people actually _read _this. Sometimes I'm actually astounded.)


	27. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

**"Some say our national pastime is baseball. Not me. It's gossip." – Erma Bombeck**

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

**In which Draco has shampoo problems and Narcissa is highly insensitive to his needs…**

**_September 28, 2003_**

The day was doomed from the start.

First, Draco woke up three hours earlier than he'd intended, partly due to the sun rising in his eyes but mostly due to the owl who'd arrived three hours earlier than it was supposed to with a bundle of mail, only part of which was actually addressed to him. Most of it was addressed to his mother, who was always receiving thank you notes from various charities and legislative offices that she didn't really care about.

He took the bundle and used it to forcibly swat the poor little owl out of his room. "Aiyeeeeeee" it said.

Once that had been taken care of he noticed two things: a) that he was obscenely tired and b) that there was a red, heart-shaped package situated among his letters. He snatched the heart-box away from the other, far less eye-catching mail and smiled at the shiny gold lettering. "Honeydukes," he mouthed, all sound blocked by an impromptu build-up of excitement in the back of his throat.

He tore off the crinkly spellophane wrapping and threw it aside, the prospect of sugar driving his fingers to expose neat rows of identical chocolates stacked in delicious perfection.

He licked his lips in anticipation, then reached into the box with one eager hand and pulled out a perfectly round piece of paradise.

The anticipation was palpable.

He pressed the truffle through his lips and smiled like a spoiled two-year-old (or a spoiled twenty-three-year-old, for that matter).

_Mmm… chocolate…_

He bit down on the truffle and gagged, spitting it out so fast and hard that it hit the window across the room.

He sent the chocolates over and onto the ground with one swift and well-placed kick. _Splat!_

Who in the world would send him an entire box of chocolates filled with that most vile of substances: _coconut cream_! (dun dun dun)

He sat in sullen silence for a while, pouting distastefully down at the smashed chocolates.

Some people could be so cruel.

When pouting became a bore, he found himself in the bathtub, watching fluffy pink bubbles float by his nose and playing with a little, yellow rubber duckling that Hermione had bought him in muggle London. It didn't do anything but float on the surface and he found its unwavering smile a bit disturbing, but it amused him nonetheless. Honestly, the things muggles came up with to pass the time.

He turned a tap for shampoo and a torrent of white foam ran out into his hands.

He ran the foam through his hair, lathering it into a Mohawk. He ran his fingers up and down through his shampoo Mohawk, providing himself with a nice little fantasy about replacing Myron Wagtail as the lead singer of the Weird Sisters.

"People… People do-o-o-o-on't cha-a-ange…" he sang the first line of 'Cheat the Cheaters', imitating Wagtail's voice, which Witch Weekly had once compared to "a helium balloon being deflated in a gravel mixer."

"Times just go-o-o stra-ange, pains just de-era-a-ange… double in exchange for your mum's electric ra-a-ange."

He rinsed his hands under the soapy water.

"She's done it befo-ore but she's not thro-o-ough…"

He took a deep breath and dunked his head under. True, it might have been easier to simply wash the shampoo out with water from the tap, but then what would there be to complain about?

He came up and started turning towards the mirror to check that all of the shampoo was out.

"Cheat the cheater before the cheater cheats—" He froze and slowly turned back around. Something was wrong with the mirror and it was disturbing him quite a bit. He took a deep breath. Something was very wrong… with the mirror, of course. He turned around to face the mirror again. Yes… something was definitely wrong with the mirror. He crawled over to the tap he'd taken the shampoo from. He saw the SHA, but no MPOO. Where the MPOO should have been was a deep, accusing V-O-MATIC HAIR REMOVER.

"SHIT!" he swore. "Shit shit shit." He turned around to confirm his fears. "Shit."

There he was, reflected in the mirrors, bald as a bludger.

He pushed himself up and moved to the edge of the tub, where his foot was quick to find a puddle and slip on it. His feet had never been very good at dealing with puddles.

To Draco, the descent occurred in slow motion. He saw his right foot kick up and the ceiling falling away as he slipped backwards, his head going for black marble as his feet headed for the sky.

_Oh, Merlin. Not again_, he thought.

He felt his toes hit the towel rack, saw one soft green towel snapping off from the others and wrapping itself around his ankle. He saw the ceiling stop moving, felt his left toes gripping the edge of the tub as the towel strained under the weight of his right leg and the body attached to it. He was suspended in the air, his head suspended over the floor and the little-towel-that-could holding on for dear life.

There was only one person to call. "Mummy!"

It was a long moment and then, yelling through the halls: "One minute, dearest. I'm doing my make-up!"

"Mummy! I'm going to die!"

Another moment: "I said just a minute!"

"Mummy! The towel won't last much longer!"

Narcissa burst through the door. Her bath towels needed her. "Where's this— Oh god, Draco! "

"I know mum, I—"

She cut him off. "Put some pants on! I—"

"Mum!"

"Oh my god! What did you do to your beautiful _hair?_!"

* * *

"Welcome to _Les Decouper Ivres_." The woman said. Her hair was verybleached and her lipstick was the wrong shade. Draco could not see what she was smiling about. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No." Narcissa said. "But I don't need one. It's a bit of an emergency."

"Of course , Mrs. Malfoy. It's simply a formality," the woman said. "Now what were you wanting to do today?"

They were standing in the lobby of a very chic salon in a very chic part of Diagon Alley. Very chic men and very chic women were sitting in very chic chairs and eating very chic finger sandwiches while drinking very chic bobo tea and waiting for very chic hair cuts from their very chic stylists. Draco felt like a loser wearing a beanie and sunglasses. Narcissa had insisted that he not go out without a hat, and the beanie was the only one he could wear without causing pain to his scalp. The sunglasses were his attempt at making up for the beanie. He hoped he looked like a celebrity in hiding.

"Oh," Narcissa pretended to think. "Nothing too complicated. We'll say, a manipedi for both of us, facials, and two cut and colors. A day treatment, if you will."

* * *

Draco was feeling much better by the time he got to getting his hair (or lack thereof) done. The entire chocolate incident was forgotten, he was getting new hair, and he had nice, shiny new nails and a pretty face to make him happy.

A very chic woman with angular brown hair and tight black clothes sat him in leather chair, which she leaned back so that his head was resting in a deep black sink. "Zis might stink a bit," she said. He resigned himself to a stinky haircut and closed his eyes. Let the chic have their way with his hair, he needed sleep.

He never did get to sleep, though. No sooner had he closed his eyes then she was rubbing something that that sizzled and burned into his bald scalp. It did stink, too. It stunk like burning hair. He banished the thought and decided rather to distract himself with what the hairdressers were talking about.

"Did you read the _Prophet_ today?" asked one of them.

"No. I vas so busy vith Ivan zis morning," his stylist said.

"Oh, yeah, I know how that is."

"Vat vas I supposed to 'ave read?"

"Well on the back there was another article about that Granger girl…"

Draco groaned inwardly. Gossip was one thing, overhearing gossip about yourself was quite another.

"Yeah?"

"Apparently she's gotten back together with that Weasel guy."

"_What_?" Draco and his stylist said it in unison.

"Vat do you want bald boy?" his stylist was saying, but Draco didn't hear her.

"What about Hermione!" His voice sounded a long way off.

"Yeah, she's gone back to live with her ex. Apparently her fiancé and her had a spat and she left. She's back together with that Rob guy. They had a picture of them kissing and everything."

"Huh?" Draco's throat was suddenly very dry. He forgot about being bald and his scalp being in pain and that he was still wearing a terribly unchic black smock. He had to get out.

He tripped through the chic double-doors and stumbled to a newsstand across the street. He snatched a copy of the Daily Prophet and flipped it open to the back. It took a moment for his eyes to focus. It took another moment for him to comprehend what he was seeing.

The world reeled as he fell to his knees and some kind of sick pain bubbled up from his stomach. He could see the darkness creeping in at the corners of his vision. No… he was not going to pass out.

Hermione had left him.

That was unexpected.

Only one thought managed to get in before the darkness took him completely

Wow… Those are really hideous shoes…

* * *

When Draco woke up, he had a very bad headache, a full head of hair, and an overwhelming urge to see Hermione. Unfortunately, his mother was poised at the foot of his bed and he could see no way of flying out of the window to go confront his traitorous fiancé. Besides, that wouldn't be very Slytherin of him. 

"Here," Narcissa reached behind her and handed him a broom. "Go. Show that tart what a Malfoy's made of."

* * *

_Can you see me?_ Draco wanted to ask, but knew he wouldn't, floating specter-like above her head as she lay in bed, pretending to be asleep.She opened her eyes and rolled over to look through him and at the ceiling. He wondered who had caused such deep thoughts. _Thinking about everything that you didn't do… _he thought bitterly, that'd be why she was there, trying to re-live the past. She rolled back onto her side. Moonlight caught a glint of silver and emerald at her neck. No… she'd not broken his heart… yet. He was stronger than that. He was stronger than her.

Clearly, saying I love you had nothing to do with meaning it. He couldn't stop the angry noise in his throat, didn't think to stop her hand reaching up to grab solid air and pull down, hard, on the cloak, like liquid silver flowing from his back and onto her lap.

"You pervert!" she scoffed, but he knew she was laughing at him. She reached out to pull him down to her level, but he twitched his hips and the broom glided away from her grasp. "What is it?" she asked, suddenly frightened. It was touching, really.

"I don't trust you," he stated simply.

She didn't reply. He knew she was trying to read his expression; she couldn't tell if he was joking or not. He locked his features against her gaze. Hermione, however, left her face free to be read. Know-it-all Granger was confused. But then, so was he, though Draco'd never admit it, even to himself.

"Draco… what…" she started, but he didn't let her finish.

"'Their intentions are unclear,'" he quoted the article, "but from the ring Granger is sporting on her left hand it appears as though they'll be newlyweds any day now."

"Oh, god, Draco, I—"

He gave her such a fierce look that she simply stopped mid-sentence, her jaw frozen halfway to "I can't believe you'd read that crap."

"A _hairdresser_, Granger! I got told by a _hairdresser_!" he hissed. There was no need to yell when a sharp whisper could do the same job admirably, and with less mess. "Do you remember any of it? I remember it _very_ well!" He took a shaky breath. "I gave you a year of my _life_! I gave you a year for your doubts! _Doubts_! What other lover of _yours_ has _ever_ done that? What other man is going to give _you_ a year they could have spent shagging Pansy Parkinson and…"

"You actually think—"

"Think! _Think?_" he snapped, "I _used_ to think you were the one!" Now, he was simply sick of thinking anything at all. He felt ill.

"Draco!" She looked ready to yell. He decided to wrap it up and get out.

"No need to apologize," he drawled, almost-but-not-quite-calmly retrieving his invisibility cloak from her lap. "You aren't ever coming back to me, and while that's not how it was supposed to be…" Heartache covered heartache as his voice shook with nothing he could say or do. "In any case, I've called to let you know I'm through with you. No hard feelings, or anything. I've just decided that my father was right and muggles aren't worth the time of day. Goodnight. Sweet dreams and all that. Don't forget to bugger off." He didn't mean it, how could he? He didn't believe it, but that wouldn't matter at all if she did.

He was gone in a burst of cool air and a rustling of curtains, leaving her to stare at the place where he'd been and feel the cold weight of a huge emerald necklace unhooking itself and sliding down her chest.

* * *

FYI: The owl was shaken, but not hurt. No animals were injured in the writing of this fanfic.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading.


	28. Interlude: A Narcissa Story

**"I'm the deadliest woman in the world. But right now, I'm just scared shitless for my baby." – Kill Bill Vol. 2**

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

_Interlude: A Narcissa Story_

**In which a very exclusive club holds a very exclusive meeting and Narcissa needs help…**

**_September 29, 2003_**

The air in the Red Room was heavy with darkness and anticipation.

In the shadows, female forms shuffled to and fro, sitting, then thinking better of it and standing, then thinking better of it again and sitting back down.

"Incendio" someone whispered. A tall, red candle flickered to life, casting the features of Aemilia Lestrange, Narcissa Malfoy, and Narcissa's mother-in-law into ghostly relief.

A secret meeting of Malfoy women was being held in the deep dark bowels of Malfoy Manor, where Cordelia lived with Maximillian and a lot of ghosts.

"Alright, ladies. You all know why you're here. What are we going to do about it?" Cordelia began.

"Kill her." Narcissa snapped, running a shaking hand through her hair. "Rip her to shreds."

"Good thinking, but no." Cordelia shook her head. "If we didn't do it before, we're not going to do it now. We're better than that."

Narcissa looked a bit put out. She tapped her unbreakable enamel nails against the tabletop and thought again. "We could poison her. Find out if she has any allergies. No-one would know."

"Try less obvious." Cordelia patted the back of her hand in an almost-motherly way.

Narcissa thought again. "GAH!" she finally screamed, pounding her fist on the table. "None of this would have happened if he'd just married Pansy like I wanted him to!"

"We know, darling, we know," Cordelia whispered, "but right now, we need you to think."  
"But this is just so _awful_!"

"Darling, we know but…"

"I've just been such an awful mother!"

"Darling…"  
"I swore I wouldn't let him be that… that stupid! I swore when he was born that I'd raise him better than that and now _look_ what he's gotten himself into! Marrying a mudblood! This is just so _awful_!" she wailed.

"Narcissa…"

"And now she's gone and broke his heart, just like I _knew_ she would! They're all the—"

"NARCISSA!" Cordelia's hand met the side of Narcissa's face with a painful _thwap_. "Get a hold of yourself! _Of course_ he's that stupid, he's a man! That's why he has brilliant women like us to help him out! That's what we're HERE FOR! Yes, you may have been a terrible mother before but that is _not something_ you wail about. There is nothing you can do about it and at least now you may be able to remedy it by saving your baby from himself! Come on, woman! Who do you think you are? You are _Narcissa Daphne Malfoy_! Your husband is one of the richest, handsomest, most brilliant men in the whole of England! Your sister was so dedicated to freedom, that she was willing to die for it! She spent thirteen years in Azkaban and did you once hear her complain? Of course not, she's a bleeding _hero_! Now you come to me and say that your son has made the biggest mistake of your life and all you can do is bawl about it? You must have been _adopted_!"

She sat down so hard that the chair jumped.

Narcissa said nothing.

"Now, I will tell you what we're going to do." Cordelia cleared her throat. "We are not going to kill her. Malfoys _do not_ kill Malfoys and, despite its mothering, that _is_ most likely a little Malfoy she is carrying. We are not going to blackmail her into leaving. We are not going to tell Draco to leave her out in the cold. As I stated before, it is imperative that they get married. Malfoys take care of their own. That little baby is not going to be born without a father and Draco will be its father, even if it's born with flaming red hair and a big fat W on its forehead. If we say that its ours, the public will accept it as ours and it will be ours. Malfoys do not stand to be humiliated by _anyone_, especially not mudbloods and Weasleys. Next, Narcissa, your son's pride has been hurt. That'll take a bit of fixing but there is no doubt in my mind as to his desire to marry her. He wants it. He wants it more than he's ever wanted anything in his entire life, or he would have pulled out by now. The boy's not known for his courage. As to her, I'm not sure. She's going to need some wooing but I think we can get her, too. Until then, we will act as though nothing has happened. Narcissa, you may be as neurotic as you like but don't mention Weasley. Aemilia, I'm not quite sure why you're here in the first place. Just keep doing what you've been doing."

"But… what about after the baby is born?" Narcissa whimpered.

Cordelia smiled. "You can kill her then, Narcissa, if you still want to."

Narcissa seemed to like that. "But what about for now?"

"For now, we'll give her a hell of a hard time getting down that aisle. Mind, we won't stop her, but we can come as close as you like." She smiled a macabre grin. "You don't need to be standing to get married, after all."

Narcissa laughed. "I'll talk to Draco."

"No." Cordelia shook her head. "I'll do it. I'll come over tomorrow and we'll… _chat_."

* * *

A/N: I wrote this chapter very quickly once I'd got half-way through the chapter that's supposed to be here but is actually coming next. I'm dedicating this chapter to OrgnlAmagic because their review made me realize that the next chapter will make no sense without this little scene. So, here's this little scene. Onto the next chapter. 


	29. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

**"Rubber Duckie, you're so fine  
And I'm lucky that you're mine  
Rubber duckie, I'm awfully fond of -  
Rubber duckie, I'd like a whole pond of -  
Rubber duckie I'm awfully fond of you!  
(doo doo, be doo.)****"**

**-Rubber Duckie, _Jim Henson_**

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

**In which Hermione receives multiple surprises and Draco resumes his breakdown…**

**_September 29, 2003_**

By the time Hermione got around to Palais du Malfoi, she was feeling slightly under the weather. Partly, she was still angry at Draco. Why was it that he could never just listen? He could never just think for a moment. He always just had to throw fits about everything. What was she, his babysitter? She could barely stand to come and talk to him again, but she knew she had to. She had to at least give him the benefit of the doubt and try to explain how she saw things before completely writing him off.

The fact that it was a Monday morning probably had some negative effect on her mood, as well.

She banged around on the porch for some time until the house itself grew tired of her and opened the door. She was slightly perplexed by the door suddenly creaking open of its own accord, but not too perplexed to go in. Upon entry, she was greeted by a wary elf, who asked her where she was going in a tone that could almost be called disdainful.

"I'm looking for Draco?" Hermione took off her shoes (a habit she'd never quite broken in three years living by herself) and placed them by the door.

The elf frowned. "Mistress is accepting all visitors who is coming today," it squeaked. "I is showing you to her." With that the elf turned and started off the way it had come. Hermione hesitated for a moment and then decided to follow. After all, while Narcissa may have been a bit eccentric, she was practically family.

She followed the elf down the now all-too-familiar black marble halls, past portraits of Malfoys past and present. Somewhere ahead of them, a dull thudding was pounding in the walls. As they drew nearer to the source, Hermione recognized it as a beat, a very fast beat. The elf paused in front of a large pair of double doors. Hermione could hear splashing and smell… chlorine?

"You is going in now," the elf ordered. Hermione was torn between being proud of its self-worth and offended that she was being ordered at all. She settled for going in.

The abundance of light beyond the doors was such a drastic contrast to the darkness in the halls that it took Hermione a moment to see anything but sun spots. When she could finally see, it still took her a long moment to get her bearings.

She was standing on the edge of an enormous indoor pool. The high, vaulted ceiling and the equally high walls were all made of glass, inlaid with heavily-polished wood beams. Light streamed in and sparkled on the surface of water that was impossibly blue. Tables with yellow umbrellas and long wooden lounge chairs were arranged at pleasing angles on the boardwalk-style deck.

Hermione barely noticed any of this, however, because the far wall was covered in the most amazing collection of indoor waterfalls that she'd ever seen. A mini indoor-mountain had been built, and countless waterfalls ran down its face, varying in size from the insignificant trickle near the bottom, to the full-blown torrent set just perfectly off-center. Ferns and other greenery sprung out on ledges and real moss grew in the cracks. Hermione thought it was single most beautiful piece of useless crap she'd ever seen.

"Helen! Darling!" she heard someone calling from a long way off. She forced herself to stop watching the waterfalls and find the faceless voice. She saw Narcissa blowing kisses at her from atop a Very High diving platform. "You've come just in time to see my routine!"

"What routine?" Hermione was about to ask, but couldn't because at that moment Narcissa dove forwards into the air and, despite all laws of nature, managed to find time between jumping and landing to do three flips, her knees tucked close to her head until the last, pinnacle moment when she released herself to the air and slid effortlessly into the water, three bubbles the only sign that she'd been there at all.

While Narcissa was still flipping around under the water, Hermione took the time to notice the beat again. It was fairly obnoxious, actually, and it came with no signs of stopping.

After a few long moments her mother-in-law-to-be (she hoped) popped up again, all smiles and waterproof make-up.

"Who were you looking for?" Narcissa asked.

"Draco." Hermione replied, as though it weren't painfully obvious.

"Oh. Then, no."

"No, what?" Hermione asked, but Narcissa had already propelled herself backwards and under the water, pointing her feet up and over her head as she flipped over. Hermione walked after her along the edge as she moved along under the water.

"How was that?" Narcissa asked as she popped up again.

"How was what?"

"My dolphin! How was my dolphin?"

Hermione was beginning to think that Narcissa was, maybe, a bit more eccentric than she'd counted on. Flips were one thing, they may even have been a nice thing, invisible dolphins were quite another. "Dolphin...?" she asked.

Narcissa laughed. "My dolphin! It's synchronized swimming, puppet!"

"Oh?"

"That's what the music's for, of course. I need to keep in time, don't I?"

"Of course," Hermione guessed, though she really had no idea what Narcissa was going on about.

"Here, watch this!"

Before Hermione could tell her that no, actually, she did not have time to watch the entirety of Narcissa's synchronized swimming routine, the swimmer in question was climbing back up the diving platform, much faster than should have been possible of a woman her age.

"Trust me, darling. Your going to _love_ it!" she said, pausing to stretch as she walked towards the edge. She snapped and an upbeat techno song took over for the beat. "Just _love _it!"

Hermione sighed and, despite what she might rather be doing (which involved telling Narcissa exactly what she could do with that dolphin), she resigned herself to loving a synchronized swimming routine. She moved some towels and sat under one of the superfluous umbrellas.

When she looked up, Narcissa was already halfway to the pool. The lack of splash did not seem nearly as impressive the second time around.

A few moments later, she appeared again, or, at least, her legs appeared. She kicked around in the air for a bit, and then sank down again. Then she was laying on the surface of the water, spinning round and round in circles with one leg pointed not-quite-straight-up in the air. It was impressive but, Hermione thought with a pang of guilt, not all that pretty.

Then she flipped her legs back and, with a tremendous splash, she was under again.

She repeated this a few times, and then did another dolphin. Hermione still didn't think it looked very much like a dolphin… and how was what Narcissa was doing synchronized swimming? Who was she synchronized with?

Just as Hermione was wondering at the absurdity of it all, Narcissa did the most absurd thing yet. As the techno beat pounded she threw her legs into the air and spun them around as if she were riding an upside-down bicycle. Hermione caught a giggle halfway out of her mouth, so that it came out as a kind of hack-snort. Honestly, the things some witches did to pass the time!

When her legs were successfully sunk again, Hermione allowed herself a tiny giggle. Then, there was another tremendous splash as, in accordance with the music (it building to a tremendous climax of electronic pounding and synthesizer), Narcissa propelled herself out of the water in an enormous backflip, which involved a lot of spinning around in the air, bending and unbending her legs and smiling like a Cheshire cat with petrol on its teeth. She dove back into the water to uproarious applause (Hermione never did discover where the applause was coming from.)

Hermione finally had to admit. The backflip _was_ pretty cool.

Finally, the routine was over and Narcissa was gracefully hopping out of the pool. "Oh, darling!" she said, standing and adjusting her black two-piece. Hermione felt a bit self-conscious seeing a woman twice her age looking twice as good as her in a bikini. "I just _adore_ synchro! It's the only way to get in shape, you know. I started after I had Draco, you know what awful things a baby does to your body." She gently patted Hermione's stomach. "But don't you worry, we'll fix your tummy just as soon this little cherub is born."

Hermione glanced in what she hoped was a loving way down at her empty abdomen.

"How far along are you, now?" Narcissa asked, drying herself off with one of the fluffy blue towels. "Three months? Four?"

Hermione did some fast math. "Almost at one now, actually."

"Ah, well." Narcissa smiled. "Some women just grow faster than others, I guess. Biscuit?"

"Huh?"

"Would you like to come have a biscuit and some tea with me in the kitchen?"

"Oh, no, thank you. I've actually come to see Draco." Hermione repeated.

"Oh." Narcissa walked past Hermione and through a door she hadn't noticed before. "Don't follow now, I'm changing!" she called in a sing-song voice.

Hermione waited outside, debating whether she ought to be polite or dynamic. Impatience and dynamic tendencies won out after a few, long moments and she knocked.

"One moment, darling!" Narcissa called.

"No, that's alright Narcissa. I just need to know where I can find him and I'll be on my way."

"Oh," the door opened and Narcissa stepped out, wearing smart black gaucho pants and a sharp gray blazer. "You can't see him, not today." She walked quickly out through the double doors. Hermione headed after her, almost-but-not-quite running to match her long strides.

"But..." Hermione panted, "why not?"

Narcissa did not answer immediately but turned sharply down a side corridor. "Why not what?"

"Why can't I see him today? Why not now?"

Quite suddenly, the clacking of patent-leather heels against marble stopped. Narcissa had stopped in front of a black door identical to all the others. "You cannot see him today…" Narcissa pushed the door open and clacked inside. "…because he is visiting with his grandmother and they have quite a lot to discuss so I don't think they'll be out of his room until sometime after midnight. Would you like a biscuit?"

"No, thank you." They were in a very large kitchen decorated in a country/French style with green marble countertops and cream-colored cabinets. A fire was spitting and hissing in a brick fireplace on one wall.

Narcissa frowned. "They're very good."

"No, that's alright. I'm not hungry. I ate before I came." Hermione explained.

"Okay, well then, do sit down." Hermione complied. Narcissa bustled about, moving pots and pans but not really doing anything. Finally, she pulled a cord, which was hanging from the ceiling above the sink, and almost instantly, a house-elf dressed in a potato sack came tripping through the door. Narcissa merely nodded at it and it bustled out through the door across the way.

"You know…" Hermione started.

"I like our elves. Our elves like us. The end." Narcissa snapped, lifting a brown bag from the ground and dumping its contents, about thirty letters, onto the table. "Oh, Hester, look!" Narcissa beamed, all smiles again. "Letters!" She tore one open and pulled the crisp white paper from within as though she were de-slugging an escargot.

The house-elf returned with a tray of tea and a pile of snacks on plates. It laid it on the table and walked out. Narcissa handed one of the plates to Hermione.

"What is this?" she asked.

"Your biscuit." Narcissa replied.

"But…I…"

"They're very good."  
Hermione sighed… again. "Where'd he get all the food from?" she finally asked.

"The kitchen, of course!" Narcissa laughed.

Hermione looked around. "This isn't the kitchen?"

Narcissa leaned down and smiled pityingly. "This isn't _their_ kitchen," she said, as though Hermione had asked if the sky was blue. She turned back to the letter

"Oh."

"Oooh! Hallie! Listen to this!" she sat down across from Hermione and cleared her throat. "'Dear Mrs. Malfoy," she read, holding the crisp white letter in front of her like a royal decree. "'Of course, we will be more than delighted to attend the wedding on October the Fifth. We are eagerly awaiting the opportunity to see you and your beautiful family there. Thank you for inviting us, Thumbelina and Fiona Fudge.' Oh, Harmony, isn't that exciting?"

"Who's wedding is this?" Hermione asked. She'd been so wrapped up in her own wedding that she'd barely had time to think about anyone else who might be having one.

Narcissa laughed. "Yours, of course!"

Hermione suddenly lost all ability to hear. "Who's?"

"Yours! Your wedding, silly!"

It took her a moment to comprehend but then: "You sent out invitations to _MY WEDDING_ without asking _ME_!"

"But, of course! I knew you wouldn't have the time!" Narcissa beamed, opening another letter. "Oh, here's another one. 'Dearest and most esteemed Mrs. Malfoy,' oh, that sounds nice, doesn't it?"

"Wait, but, you invited my friends?"

"Well, I'm certain I don't know, darling! There's only so many people we can hold in our house!"

"Well, but…" Hermione's mind was reeling. She was only just hearing what Narcissa had actually said. "What day is it?"

"The fifth, of course! A Sunday. A _Beautiful_ day for a wedding says the _Prophet_."

"The fifth of… December?"

"December? No! October the fifth. A beautiful, warm Sunday."

"But…" Hermione was counting off on her fingers. "That's less than a week away!"

"Oh, darling, I know it's soon but…" She smiled down at Hermione's stomach again. She whispered, "… we can't have you… _showing_."

"But… I…"

"Come now," Narcissa stood. "Your mother and sister will be here any minute. We've got to go."

"But…" Hermione followed her in a daze. "Where are we going?"

"We can't have you getting married in your knickers, can we?" She laughed. "No! You need a dress!"

* * *

Draco Malfoy was being taunted by a rubber duck. 

He held it right up to his nose with both hands and stared unblinkingly into its bright blue eyes.

The corners of his mouth were turned down by a greater force than gravity; but the snot-nosed little bird smiled on, taunting him with its unwavering happiness.

"Why can't you miss me?" he asked it. His voice was hoarse from yelling at nothing in particular for the larger part of all night. It did not answer, but only continued smiling. He couldn't stand it any more.

The duck hit his dresser with a reverberating _BOOM! _The dresser rattled. The duck bounced away. Draco was frozen mid-throw, as though he couldn't believe his own arm.

"Here," Mum reached under the dresser and found the unlucky little duck. "I can see we've got a lot of work to do." She sat down on the edge of his bed and made herself comfortable. "Now, this, Granger girl. She's something special."

Draco swallowed. "That seems highly irrelevant. She doesn't want me."

Mum scoffed. "Doesn't want you? What woman in their right mind could not want a handsome man like you? Come on! Don't forget, your blood's one-fourth mine, and even if you only looked a quarter as good as I do you'd still be quite a catch. Quite clearly, this woman is not in her right mind."

Draco drew a sleeve across his eyes. "There's nothing we can do about it."

"Ha! 'Nothing we can do about it'." She smiled. "Kid, you're sounding like your mother. Now, what are you? A man, or a Malfoy?"

He didn't answer immediately and so she did it for him.

"You're a Malfoy, and if you want something you are _goin_g to have it. Generations of Slytherins did not make a boy without cunning. How are you going to win her back?"

Draco lay back into his pillows. "She doesn't want me!"

"That's irrelevant!" she snapped. "What do you like about her?"

"Nothing," he said. "She's the bossiest person I've ever met."

Cordelia groaned. "But you love her, or you wouldn't have tried to kill this duck."

Draco said nothing.

"Fine," she said. "I guess I thought you were better than that, is all. Bye, love."

He heard her heels clacking away but did not turn to watch her go; he was too busy watching the ceiling. Somewhere in the upper limits of his room, a plan was hatching, a more brilliant plan than had yet seen the light of day.

He was going to win back Hermione Granger, regardless of whether or not she wanted to be won, and he was going to do it the Malfoy way: with blackmail, bribery, and loads of cash.

* * *

A/N: Review? Please? Please tell me if some parts didn't make any sense or if I should add something... or what. I you're confused, please tell me. That seems to be one of my problems.


	30. CHAPTER THIRTY

**"****Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake." – Napoleon Bonaparte**

CHAPTER THIRTY

**In which Ron is (kind of) responsible and Draco has made a mistake…**

**_September 29, 2003_**

Ron was being (kind of) responsible and (kind of) washing the dishes when he heard the knock at the door.

_Knock Knock Knock._

Three very important-sounding, heavy knocks resonated through the kitchen.

"I'm coming!" he called and dropped the (kind of) clean plate back into his sink. "I'm coming."

The door opened with a (kind) of ominous creak and he looked out with (minimal) trepidation and (at least a little bit of) fear. (A very little bit.) There was no one there. He frowned and closed the door again, (almost) thinking nothing of it.

He turned back to the kitchen.

"Hello, Mr. Weasley," someone behind him drawled.

Ron jumped. A lot and high. He jumped 180 degrees around until he was facing… A Mysterious Man in Black! (dun dun dun)

"Begag!" he said. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Malfoy!"

"Malfoy?" The Mysterious Man in black frowned.

"Oh, come off it! Do you really think that wearing a hat is going to disguise that vile little face of yours?"

"That is no way to talk to your superiors, Mr. Weasley," the-Mysterious-Man-in-Black-who-was-clearly-Draco-Malfoy said, very disappointed that his brilliant costume hadn't fooled anyone.

"Fine, have it your way." Ron turned about and stomped back into the kitchen. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, then? Or is this just what you normally do on Mondays, go around darkening innocent doorways?"

"I'm here to speak with you about a woman who has been staying here." The not-so-mysterious man in black said.

Ron groaned and rummaged in the cold closet.

"Ms…er…" Malfoy made a big show of reaching into a non-existent pocket and pulling out a very existent card. "Ms. Hermione Granger. I'd like to buy her."

Ron snapped to attention. "You'd _what_?"

"I'd like to buy her." Malfoy repeated, pulling a sharp black briefcase from behind him. "You have her, I want her, let's talk price."

"Wait… wait wait wait." Ron took a seat at the table. "I have her?"

"Not for long. How much are you asking?"

Ron cocked his head to side and tried to comprehend what Draco was asking. "Wait… you want to _buy_ her? Like… with money?"

"Yes."

"Like… as a slave?"

"No no no…" Draco shook his head so fervently that his Mysterious Black Fedora almost fell off. "As my wife, of course!"

"But…" Ron momentarily contemplated the best way to explain common etiquette to a person who clearly knew nothing about it. "You can't just buy _people. _You can't _buy_ a good relationship… it doesn't work like that!"  
"You'll find, Mr. Weasley, that for the right price, anything can be bought."

"But—"

"I know, it's a mysterious concept to you. But I am prepared to give you one million galleons for the love of Ms. Granger."

"But—"

"Ten million, then."

Ron was suddenly struck with a very Slytherin-worthy idea. "Well… since you're drive such a hard bargain…"

"I knew you'd see the light. I'll have the money transferred to your Gringott's account the moment she says 'I do.'"

Draco turned to go, taking his briefcase with him.

Ron suddenly felt like a Very Bad Man. "Wait—" he said.

"I'm afraid I can't give you any more—"

"NO!" Ron snapped. "I don't want your sodding money! That would be stealing and while you might sell what isn't rightfully yours, I know my mother didn't raise me like that. Hermione hasn't loved me for three years, and you're daft for believing anything Rita Skeeter writes. Hermione never came back to me, _ever_, and if she's been driven away then you did that all yourself. Just… pretend this didn't happen or whatever you're gonna end up doing anyway."

He stood and turned back to the cold closet, which he'd left open. He rummaged about for a moment and re-emerged with a butterbeer, only to find that Draco had not left, as Ron had hoped he would, but had rather made himself comfortable at Ron's very own kitchen table, his hat placed modestly before him. "Yes?" he took the open seat and opened the bottle.

"Sh…" Draco turned the wide-eyed stare he'd not utilized since he was five on a very unimpressed Ron. "I'm contemplating the most painful ways to inflict near-death on one's self."

Ron didn't even try not to snort. "'_Near_-death'?"

"I'm too gormless for death. I'd probably botch it up somehow or another." He hid his face and watched the tabletop through his fingers.

"Hey, I know loads of people who'd love to help you die."

"Ha ha."  
"And you're not really sulking. That would require you to actually care about something enough to miss it."

Draco looked indignant. "I care about a lot of things."

"I don't doubt it." Ron rolled his eyes and took a long, silence-filling sip from his bottle. "Money is, after all, a thing."

"Ha ha. That's very funny, Weasel." Draco sneered. "Keep it up and I'm going to care about putting poison in your toasting wine."

"That's very creative you know, Malfoy. If I didn't know any better I'd think you were witty."

"So you know better?" Draco scoffed. "So help me with this one: Less than twenty-four hours ago I verbally abused the witch I adore for doing something that, you tell me, she hadn't actually done. Less than twelve hours ago she went to visit me, presumably to kill me for being such a self-centered prat. She didn't find me and I came back to her place to attempt to win her back. And now I'm spilling my guts to a Weasley! What's happened to me?"

"Nothing." Ron laughed. "You're still the same, self-centered Malfoy. You're just not quite used to Hermione."

Something like an idea sparkled in the corner of Draco Malfoy's eyes. "And what," he started, "pray tell, would you do to win her back? You've known her longer than me, after all."

"No, I haven't."

"Oh, right." Draco frowned. "Still, any advice?"

Ron sighed. "Whenever we got in a fight, I'd always do something for her… something that reminded her why she loved me, or something. She said it better. In any case, all the things I did had something of her in them, to prove that I noticed things and listened and… all that other phony stuff that girls like to hear."

Draco cocked his head to the side, mulling it over. "So, I should _do_ something?"

"You should do something _huge_."

"Huge?"

"_Huge_."


	31. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

**"****Bride: A woman with a fine prospect of happiness behind her." – Ambrose Pierce**

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

**In which Narcissa is conspiring and Hermione feels like Mother Ginger…**

**_September 29, 2003_**

"Step lightly, dear, we haven't got all day!" Narcissa called, stepping easily through Diagon Alley's mid-day crowds as if they weren't there at all, a blonde head bobbing ever farther ahead of Hermione as they traipsed deeper into the congealing throng.

"But where are we going?" Hermione was practically running to catch Narcissa's stiletto-held steps (she'd insisted on changing before they left the _Palais_.)

"You'll see…" Narcissa called back. Hermione pushed her way past big paper bags and people with over-sharp elbows, getting thoroughly banged up in the process.

Finally, Narcissa stopped. "We're here!" she declared. Hermione stopped examining a not-quite-bruise on her shoulder and looked up at the storefront where they were stopped. "Madame Malkin's" Narcissa declared, as though Hermione didn't already know. The pristine storefront had changed very little since she'd been to get her _first _wedding robes. "I've arranged for Mum to pick up your mother and sister and meet us here, shall we go?"

Hermione hesitated, there was a warning about Madame Malkin's, but she simply couldn't remember it. She wished she had the list.

"Shall we go?" Narcissa repeated. Hermione shrugged and followed her inside. She was, after all, powerless to stop fate.

"Ah! Narcissa!" Madame Malkin, a plump witch robed entirely in maroon, crooned, rushing to cover Narcissa in socialite kisses and butterfly hugs "We've been expecting you!"

"Oh, Muffin, I'm just oh-so-excited!" Narcissa oozed. Hermione cast around for something, anything but the two women schmoozing their hearts out in front of her, to focus her attention on. She found Jeanie.

Her mother and sister were sitting in over-stuffed leather lounge chairs and snacking on tiny biscuits and crackers, being wildly entertained by something Pansy Parkinson, who was sitting on Jeanie's left, was saying. Ginny Weasley was sitting on Rebecca's right, scowling into a fashion magazine, and Tamryn (who Hermione had almost completely forgotten about when she left her to run the store) was sitting on Ginny's right, conversing with Aemilia Lestrange, who was sitting in a leather armchair on Tamryn's right. Cordelia (Hermione was resolved never to call her 'Mum') was standing behind Aemilia's chair, one hand resting on the back, the other being used as a cup holder as she talked animatedly with a Madame Malkin's employee. They looked like the quarrelsome family of a dying person waiting tensely in a hospital lobby; very few of them really wanted to be there, and those who did were nothing if not all smiles. She felt, for the umpteenth time that week, that she'd quite suddenly stumbled into a very strange and purposeless dream.

Jeanie caught Hermione's eye and waved her over. "'Mione, 'Mione, 'Mione!" she squealed, standing and tottering over to where Hermione was still gawking. "Pansy was just telling us the most hilarious story!" she exclaimed, after imitating Narcissa's socialite-kiss on a lackadaisical Hermione. "Ohmygod, is it true that _your _fiancé made up an entire song about what an awful goalie Ron was?"

Hermione stole a glance at Pansy, who was watching them and grinning as though her teeth were covered in venom. "Yeah, he did." Hermione shrugged. Ginny began grinding her teeth and loudly shaking her magazine.

"What a guy!" Jeanie laughed. "When do I get to meet him?" She forcefully steered Hermione over to the other women, seating her directly between Pansy and herself before asking again. "When, huh? When do I get to meet the bloke you finally hooked?"

"I don't know, Jeanie…at the wedding?"

"At the WEDDING?" Jeanie shrieked.

"Ah, Jeanie, that was my eardrum!" Hermione rubbed the ear Jeanie had been screaming into.

"Ooh, sorry, 'Mione." Jeanie pouted and blinked a few times. Hermione had never understood how this was supposed to invoke compassion, but she was too tired to say that. Instead she said nothing and buried herself in a fashion magazine.

"Alright, ladies, let's get fitted!" Narcissa beamed a moment later. "Muffin wants to know your measurements, Harmony, darling."

Hermione tried to smile and followed Madame Malkin into the fitting room.

"Alright, dear, this might tickle a bit," the buxom woman chirped. She flicked her wand at a limp tape-measure and it instantaneously jumped up and wrapped around Hermione's waist. "So, what were you thinking, as far as this thing goes?"

"Oh," Hermione smiled shyly. "I hadn't really though about it," she lied.

"Oh, nonsense." Malkin sung. "Everyone's thought about their wedding clothes! Let's start with the basics. White, of course."

"Of course," Hermione echoed automatically, then frowned. "Actually, you know what…" She thought for a moment. "I don't think I want to get married in white."

"What's this I hear about not getting married in white!" Narcissa, who had been listening through the curtain and now stuck her head through a flap, yelped as though she'd been slapped.

"WHAT!" all the women echoed, sticking their heads through the flap as well, so that Hermione was faced with a totem-pole of gaping women.

"Not wear white, dear?" Cordelia laughed as though she'd just heard that the moon was populated by giant baby beluga whales. "But that's ridiculous!"

"I don't know…" Hermione began, becoming very irritated at the tape measure now measuring around her head "this isn't my first wedding and I—"

"YOU'VE BEEN MARRIED BEFORE?" Pansy shrieked.

Hermione scowled. "No! But I have planned a wedding before and I read somewhere that if it's not your first wedding you're not supposed to wear white."

"You're not supposed to be pregnant, either," Aemilia drawled.

Jeanie looked as though she was about to say something, so Hermione was very glad when a Mysterious Voice said "I think it's a brilliant idea."

With a sudden _swoosh! _the curtain fell back into place and all the women turned to face the newcomer. Hermione stepped down from her podium and peaked around the drapes. Lucine and Rachel Malfoy were standing upright in the doorway, looking for all the world as if they weren't supposed to be there.

"Hi." Rachel waved nervously.

"Don't bother apologizing for not inviting us. It's not like we're family, or anything." Lucine sneered.

"Lucy!" Rachel hissed.

"Mum!" Lucy hissed back.

Cordelia sighed. Their invitation clearly had not been lost in the mail. "Rebecca Granger, Rachel Malfoy, my… daughter-in-law. Rachel Malfoy, Rebecca Granger, Draco's mother-in-law-to-be."

"Hello," they said, two ill-fitted women being introduced to their outcast companion and finding the similarities wholly unflattering.

"Lucine—" Cordelia began again.

"Lucy."

"Lucine Malfoy, Jaquenetta—"

"Jeanie, please."

"Jaquenetta Granger, Draco's prospective sister-in-law."

"Jaquenetta—"

"Jeanie."

"Jaquenetta Granger, Lucine—"

"Ugh."

"Lucine Malfoy, Draco's cousin."

Jeanie eyed the black streaks in Lucy's otherwise platinum hair with impolite interest and a hint of suspicion. Lucy made a face at Jeanie's very unnatural blonde highlights and the length (or lack-thereof) of her skirt. They nodded.

"Alright. Let's get shopping!" Narcissa declared, throwing her arms open and bursting to the center of attention as if she'd just come out of a cake.

"Yay!" said everyone.

The backroom of Madame Malkin's, where the finest, most expensive robes were kept, always reminded Hermione of the upscale London Department Stores she'd visited as a child, holding her mothers hand on one of their daytrips, skipping through the evening-dress department as Rebecca tried on hats, throwing the big tulle skirts over her head and getting lost in a vibrant world of crimson, or rich violet, or the pure, pristine white of a wedding gown, asking her mother please, please could she buy one of the taffeta confections she coveted so, falling asleep on her mother's shoulder as they left at the end of the day, one paper shopping bag filled with one wide-brimmed hat, a pair of gloves, and two chocolates, all they'd bought after four hours of 'consideration' (a word Hermione did not yet understand but which she liked to use as often as possible), then, later, watching Jeanie gurgle in her carrier as she rubbed one soft silk scarf after another over her little baby cheeks, "testing for softness compatibility".

The main difference, of course, between Hermione's department stores and Madame Malkin's backroom was the tulle, the netting that muggles used to give volume to ball gown skirts. Wizards had never found any purpose in tulle, which they replaced with inflation charms and magical fabrics. Hermione had noticed this when she had begun searching for her first wedding dress, checking under every skirt for a quantity of itchy netting she couldn't find. It was a little disappointing, she'd decided. Hermione may have been practical, but even the practical are allowed their dreams, and Hermione had always dreamed of a tulle underskirt she now knew she simply wouldn't get.

The women swarmed over the tulle-free room like bees to a honey-coated daffodil. Hermione wandered around the edge, observed the mass of white fabric and lace set before her, and wondered why she suddenly felt so out-of-place.

She wandered over to the far corner, where a pile of rainbow-colored dresses was set aside with a sign reading "One-of-a-kind: _Creations by Muffin_" and then below it "Five for a Galleon" It was a pitiful collection of mismatched fabrics and unflattering cuts. Hermione lifted a hot pink tube dress from its resting place and laughed. She doubted Barbie would have fit it. She dug deeper, past putrid greens and vomit-inducing purples. Her hand brushed slick vinyls and even what felt like burlap. She amused herself with the ugliest, holding them up for an instant before letting them drop again. Quite suddenly, she froze, one hand holding up a white, denim ball gown while the other was thrust deep into the pile. She dropped the ball gown and plunged the other hand in after the first. Could it be? But… she was so sure… Yes, she decided, it had to be. She broke into an ecstatic grin and made to pull the bottom-most dress up into the light.

"Harmony, there you are!" Narcissa sang, grabbing Hermione around the waist and dragging her sideways, away from the dress in question.

"But… I…" she stammered, but it was too late, she'd already been steered straight into the foray.

"Sit," someone commanded. She did. She barely noticed other people moving around her, forms sitting beside her and excitedly rubbing her shoulders. The room erupted in one climactic buzz and then:

"Ladies!" a posh female voice oozed from the air. "Madame Malkin's presents: _White Wedding_, a completely impromptu show designed for your specific tastes and wishes, presented for your viewing pleasure and shopping ease!"

"You're going to _love _this!" Narcissa whispered conspiratorially into her ear, and Hermione bothered to notice that she was sitting on a long leather couch. Narcissa was on her left and… she turned. Her mother was sitting on her right, looking thoroughly awe-struck as a thoroughly solid wall melted away into a long white runway.

"Oooh!" she clapped and smiled proudly over at Hermione.

"First, ladies," the terribly posh voice drawled, "Madame Malkin's presents a _Muffin _creation." There was a sudden _pop!_ and then a tall, stick-thin woman built entirely unlike Hermione was posing at the end of the runway, straight-lipped and looking wholly unlikable. "A mermaid silhouette," the voice announced, "with a raised waistline and an empire bodice. This dress has a sweetheart neckline with short bandeau sleeves and a sweeping train." The model remained posing, shifting weight from hip to hip for a moment, and then turned and was gone.

"I liked that one," Hermione admitted.

"No," Narcissa sighed. "You would never fit something like that, not growing at your rate!" Jeanie and Rebecca suppressed snorts. Ginny didn't bother not laughing. Hermione was very glad when another model (still built entirely unlike Hermione) apparated onto the runway and the announcer said "This _Wera Vang_ creation, a special from her "Moon over Transylvania" collection, has a ballgown-style skirt with rosette decoration, a dropped waistline, and a princess bodice. The long sleeves and much of the bodice, including the illusion neckline, are made entirely out of Merlin-era lace, as is the elegant, short train."

"Oooh!" Narcissa cooed. "That's lovely!"

"Erm…" Hermione frowned. "Don't you think it's a bit, Ms. Havisham?"

"Of course, of course." Narcissa nodded vigorously, clearly having no idea who Ms. Havisham was or why that would be a bad thing. "You're right, it's much too small. NEXT!"

The model popped away and the announcer started up again. "The next dress," she began in her terribly posh accent. "is truly one-of-a-kind. Designed by Muffin herself, this was her first design, a wedding dress that was never sold due to cost complications and a lack of refinement in the general populace. Perhaps it is the dress for you."

There was an oddly ominous _pop! _followed by a collective gasp and an "Oh, Harmony, I think that's the one!"

* * *

It was, by all accounts, a monstrosity of a dress. Wearing it, Hermione looked more like an icing covered cupcake queen than a blushing bride. The top half of it was a tight-bodiced, heart-shaped corset-like… _thing_, with super-puffed marshmallow sleeves larger than her head covering her arms from shoulder to elbow. The skirt was a large, skeleton-hooped contraption that made her hips, "child-bearing" as they already were, massive watermelons balanced on her thighs, which were invisible under the mass of bows, pearls, lace, ribbons, and white silk that gave the skirt its monstrous mass.

She felt as though it might swallow her whole.

For the _n_th time, she twirled before the mirror, scrutinizing every bit of fabric and pearl from the lace neckline to the mammoth white bow strapped gracelessly over her posterior.

She could not imagine anyone designing such a dress, which, as well as breaking all the laws of physics, also broke nearly every rule of passable taste. She could only reason that it had been created entirely out of spite, or perhaps the designer merely wished to extract it from her nightmares.

The only thing about it that said "wedding dress" was that it was white. A more pristine, clean white had never before been conceived, it seemed not only to reflect light, but to exude its own snow-white glow.

_Knock! Knock! Knock! _For the _n_th time, Narcissa rapped sharply on the changing room door and for the _n_th time she said "Are you alright in there? It's just, the rest of us are dying to see how fabulous you look and we simply can't because this silly door is in the way!"

"I'm still putting it on!" Hermione lied through the door. "It's much harder than it looks."

"Oh, alright, just, come out as soon as you're ready!"

She turned her attention back to the mirror. She twitched her hips and watched the huge skirt swish back and forth, more like a huge fabric bell than a dress.

She sighed inwardly. As much as she hated it, she knew she was going to be wearing it, not because her family and friends liked it so much, but because she'd seen herself wearing the exact same hideous dress only ten days earlier, standing in a park and giving her now-self warnings about house-elves and edible knickers.

_Damn it. _Again, she tried to convince herself that she was simply being biased, that the dress wasn't so bad and that she only loathed it so because she herself hadn't picked it. She almost believed it until she opened her eyes.

The hundreds of bows and silken swags screamed out "No! This is hideous!" The pearls and lace and rosettes joined in and a chorus of "Ick!" momentarily filled her head.

Yes, the dress _was_ hideous. Yes, her in-laws _were _either tasteless or evil. Yes, her sister _was _a sycophantic socialite-in-training. Yes, she _was _largely on her own. She didn't even have Draco to corroborate her frustration and that was the most frustrating bit of it all.

"Ohmygod, 'Mione! Hurry up you fat lard!" Jeanie called through the door. "Do I have to come in there or something!"

"No, that's alright, Jeanie." Hermione called back, lifting her crumpled pants and taking her wand from their pocket. "I'll be right out."

"You better be!" Jeanie called back. She could hear her smiling in that oh-so-cute way that Hermione had never quite mastered.

"I will be!" Hermione prodded the changing room wall and muttered "_Fenestra Foraminis_…" A slow, meandering string of orange light eeked from the end of Hermione's wand and she traced a large orange rectangle on the wall. When that was done she quickly tapped the wall, which lifted up and away to reveal a perfectly rectangular window onto a muggle alley.

_Perfect.

* * *

Somewhere in the deep dark bowels of Diagon Alley, there was a dance studio. It was an unassuming dance studio, with hardwood floors and mirror-covered walls._

It was called unassuming because it did not need to assume. It was simply the best.

It was very exclusive, there the best and the most flexible trained for stints in Weird Sisters shows, back-up dancing in quidditch half-time performances, and possible guest appearances in Celestina Warbeck's PMCs (Picture and Music Cards).

On any given Monday, ten to twenty men and women from all over the world could be found rolling, bunny-hopping, pirouetting, and somersaulting across the floors. Monday the 29th was no exception.

Cleo McMillan stood on the edge of a group of men and women frugging, shouting criticisms and generally being an arse.

Quite suddenly, she was struck with the urge to go to the bathroom. She shouted one last criticism and shuffled out to the ladies room.

Once inside the door, she suddenly forgot why she was there at all (it was a Monday and she was old, this is not so surprising) and turned to leave. Fortunately for this story, her way was blocked by a man dressed all in black and a man who looked like he'd rather not be there.

Their names were Draco Malfoy and Ronald Weasley.

"Good evening, Cleo McMillan," said Draco Malfoy.

"It's barely past noon," said Ronald Weasley.

"We've come with a proposition for your dance troupe," said Draco Malfoy.

"It's not a troupe," Cleo McMillan snapped, as though he'd said something really foul. "It's a dance corps."

"A dance… corpse?" Draco Malfoy tilted his head to the side and did not look vaguely interested.

"Yes," she said. "We've changed our name. We are now the Dread Pirate Roberts Dance Corps."

"Oh. Well, I've got a lot of money and lots of somewhere elses I've got to be," Draco Malfoy snapped. "I don't have a lot of time alotted for you, so I'm going to give you the next ten seconds to accept one-thousand galleons."

* * *

A/N: Yeah, okay. I had so much I wanted to get into this chapter, so I've split it in two (smart,I know) If you review, I will love you! If you don't review, I will love you... less! MWAHAHAHA. Thanks for reading (12 Days until HBP!)


	32. Interlude: A Draco Story: Part I

**"****Ancient lovers believed a kiss would literally unite their souls, because the spirit was said to be carried in one's breath." – Eve Glicksman**

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

_Interlude: A Draco Story: Part I_

**In which Pansy receives a rude wake-up and Draco has a spaz attack… **

**_June 12, 1997_**

There are many people in the world. Billions, in fact. There are so many people that to comprehend how many people there are in the world would lead one to a maddening sense of insignificance.

An unfathomable percentage of those people (we'll say eighty-two for the sake of proportion) would tell you that they've been touched by destiny, that their lives have been directly affected by a higher power.

Most, if not all, of those people would be lying.

Contrary to popular belief, Destiny does not take part in the every day life of Joe the Ice-cream Truck Driver, or Maritza the second-grade teacher, or even Bob, head of the U.N.

Destiny doesn't spend her time bringing together the world's mundane couples, who would, without a doubt, find each other unassisted.

She doesn't even bring together some of the world's most interesting and influential couples, who are often brought together simply because they are so interesting and influential.

Destiny spends most of her time getting divine pedicures at her own personal spa. When, as is required of her, she must interfere in the lives of mortals, she isn't too partial as to where she puts her finger and often will just destine some brown cow in Dingle that it might become better acquainted with it's neighbor.

Years into the future, couples declare that their love was written in the stars, that destiny alone brought them together, that they alone were destined to make it, when really, their story is identical to ten-thousand-three-hundred-and-two other couples', and it was really their rabbit who was destined to find love.

Destiny is simply far too busy with her cuticles to deal with the lives of mortals.

So, she leaves all that fate stuff to her secretary and sister, coincidence.

Thus, it was not Destiny which struck Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy one fate-like Saturday in July, but a coincidence. It was, one might say, a very elaborate and improbable coincidence, but a coincidence just the same.

_Heeeeeeeeeeeee_

Draco grated his teeth and resisted the urge to turn around and blast the whole couch into dust. He would, later, but at the moment he was far too busy with a model quidditch set he'd just received in the mail.

_Haaaaaaaaaaw_

A group of second years playing exploding snap in the corner failed to repress their giggles.

_Heeeeeeeeeeeee_

He jumped so violently that the hoops he'd been erecting on either side of the miniature field toppled over. _Heh heh, erecting… _he thought, but there was no time to laugh about it at the moment, he had much bigger, and more amusing, fish to fry.

_Haaaaaaaaaaw_

He knocked the model stadium aside and turned 180 degrees, getting a minimal rugburn on his knees. _The things I do for justice!_ he sighed inwardly and waved animatedly in Pansy's face. She remained slumped across the faux-velvet green couch, one bent arm under her head, the other hanging ungracefully down to the floor. All her laboriously curled auburn hair was falling onto her face and into her mouth, which didn't mind much as it was busy drooling onto his, Draco Malfoy's, sweater, which she'd taken without his permission, blessing, or consent, and balled up under her head like a philistine's pillow.

None of this was, however, the main problem (though he was rather upset about the jumper).

_Heeeeeeeeeeeee_

The problem was that Pansy was snoring; and it wasn't that cute, open-mouthed, whistling thing that both the Patil sisters did when they slept in class (though that annoyed Draco quite a lot, as well.). Oh, no. Listening to Pansy snore was like having a jackhammer alternately drilled into your forehead and kneecaps. In fact, if one were asked to give a physical description of Pansy Parkinson based on her snoring alone, one would be most likely to describe a morbidly obese, hung-over Minotaur, passed out on the floor of a chainsaw factory, strangling kittens with one hand and dragging nails down an infinite expanse of blackboards with the other, at which the questioner would then look pointedly at one, then at Pansy, then back at one, and would then declare that one was exactly correct and one would be receiving one's prize in one's post.

_Haaaaaaaaaaw_

Of course, it would be simple enough to just erect (there was that word again) a silencing charm around the couch, but that just wouldn't be any _fun_, and Draco didn't see the point in doing something if it wasn't fun for him.

_Heeeeeeeeeeeee_

He slowly, carefully withdrew his wand from where he'd put it in his sleeve.

_Haaaaaaaaaaw_

"_Locomotor Couch_…" he said, and then, as an afterthought, "_Exarum_". Slowly, carefully, the couch drew back a few paces, making low noises of irrelevant protest on the stone floor. The second years who'd been giggling moved hastily out of the way as it slid through their game and came to rest against a far wall. Pansy mumbled sleepily, still dozing on a sofa that was no longer there. Draco stood, leaving her to hang an instant while he retrieved his jumper, which had been carried away with the settee.

_Heeeeeeeeeeee_

It was, as he'd expected, sporting a disgusting wet spot on one arm, where she'd clearly been slavering. He held it a fair distance in front of him and walked back over to where she was still floating, stirring slightly on cushions that were no longer there. He considered. True, it was quite amusing to watch her snoozing mid-air, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough at all.

_Haaaaaaaaaaw_

Truthfully, even a _Gryffindor _would have thought to levitate her, thus giving her a good fright and perhaps a painful landing when she woke up. Truly, that was amusing, but it wasn't enough. He wasn't, after all, a Slytherin for nothing. He had cunning (sometimes) and ambition (within limits) and an end in sight that certainly justified whatever means he could supply. Draco Malfoy liked to think that he never did things halfway (not the things that counted, anyway).

_Heeeeeeeeeeee_

The second-years had regrouped and were now watching him like vampires watching a particularly bloody war, whispering in pre-pubescent tones about things that failed to interest him. So it was to be a show, then.

_Haaaaaaaaaaw_

He concluded his consideration and plowed into Act II: Pansy's Punishment. He made a dramatic sweep with his wand and stabbed the air directly before her face with what he hoped was a decisive air. She replied with a particularly loud snort. The second-years giggled. He swung the wand back and forth over the length of her sleeping form. She mumbled something about Gladrags. Draco smirked, Gladrags indeed. If new clothes were what she wanted, far be it from him to deny her. He drew large circles in the air above her sleeping form. "_Nonconspicio Incantatem_" he whispered drawing a small line in the air before her nose. A rectangle of thick, silver magic eked slowly, laboriously from his wand tip and floated down to cover her closed eyelids like a shimmering, woolen blindfold. It flickered there for a moment longer before she gave a particularly loud snort and it faded away. He smirked. It wouldn't be prudent to have her notice that anything was the matter, would it?

_Heeeeeeeeeeee_

Next, he wove a series of quick, simple spells over her top, a light pink tee with the acronym "WILF" splattered in scrolling kaleidoscope letters across the chest. He pulled back on the wand, feeling each of his incomplete spells tug back. With a flick of his wrist the spells morphed and melded together in a confused orgy of green sparks. Unsure what it was supposed to be doing, the magic, and the shirt along with it, vanished.

_Haaaaaaaaaaw_

Of course, there were better, more effective ways to make something invisible, but Draco always felt a strange surge of creative pride every time he could confuse an object into disappearing. It was a rare, relished feeling.

_Heeeeeeeeeeee_

It was lucky for Pansy that she'd chosen to wear a bra that day, Draco ruminated, rather than just casting a support charm, as she usually did (why Draco knew this was a private matter between Pansy, himself, and the rest of Slytherin house).

_Haaaaaaaaaaw_

Not yet near completion, he was really having quite a bit of fun, he moved down to her skirt, which was already quite short, but which he felt could do with a bit less fabric.

_Heeeeeeeeeeee_

He waved his wand. The second-years were, by now, enraptured in his every movement. "_Substricto Minimus…'Babe'_" Nothing happened, it wouldn't until she got up and started talking. His audience made a small noise of disappointment. He made the hand-gesture equivalent of "shut your mouths you sodding tots."

_Haaaaaaaaaaw_

He moved back up to her forehead, the scrolling text on her shirt had given him an idea. He aimed at her forehead.

_Heeeeeeeeeeee_

He thought. He'd seen someone do the spell he was trying to recall a few years before. It was a practical joke spell, dead funny if you weren't the one casted on. He sighed. It wasn't a complicated spell, at least, and he stood very little risk of getting it wrong (he was just that good), it was a win-win situation, as far as his pride was concerned. "_Revalo Mens Mentis_" he hissed. Instantly, words in a curvy pink script began scrolling right to left across Pansy's smooth white forehead. He let out the breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. A perfect mind-reading spell, in the literal sense of the word "reading." "_I love kittens_," one of the scrolling phrases read. He snorted. Poor, predictable Pansy.

_Haaaaaaaaaaw_

Assured that his plots were complete, he went back to his spot on the floor, facing her. He licked his lips in anticipation, took a deep breath and—

"PANSY!"

Immediately, her head snapped up and she crashed to the floor, landing in a confused pile of invisible tee-shirts and scrolling pink thoughts.

He roared with laughter, clutching his side and falling sideways as she sat up and tried to figure how she could have fallen so far from the sofa.

She turned to him, forgetting for the moment that she'd recently fallen a good six-feet away from where she was sleeping. "Hey, babe," she cooed. Immediately, her skirt took it upon itself to show more thigh, moving up a few good centimeters.

The second-years giggled.

Pansy crawled over to where he was sitting, a shag somewhere in the near future filling her dark eyes. She leaned into his ear and whispered, in what she apparently thought was a sexy way, that it was the last night of their days at Hogwarts, and she hoped he might meet her in "that fourth floor closet by the library," right after the End-of-the-Year banquet to celebrate their freedom.

"_Merlin, I'm horny_," the words scrolling across her forehead said. "_Shag me now! Shag me now!"_

He choked back another bout of laughter, perhaps being a little too enthusiastic in his hacking cough, because when next he looked she was watching him with worried interest. He nodded that he would meet her and she kissed his earlobe in a way that could never be described as "chaste".

"I'm going to go find Millie. Okay, babe?" she whispered. Her skirt shrunk further. "_Millie Millie Bo Billie Fee Fi Fo Fillie Mi-i-i-illie,"_ her forehead said.

He nodded again, trying to hold back another wave of naughty giggles barely trapped behind his lips.

"See you later, babe." Her skirt's bottom was now hovering dangerously close to it's top. "_My legs are cold."_

She stood, straightening a shirt that only she could see, the blindfolding charm would prevent her from noticing anything wrong with her clothing for a good hour. Hopefully, he'd be far away when she discerned that her shirt was less opaque than usual.

He was held up after the feast by a particularly put out Peeves, who rolled a wide red carpet down the stairs after him, forcing Draco and a gaggle of Hufflepuff girls to duck into an awkward side corridor which didn't go anywhere near to "that fourth floor closet by the library."

Once he'd got his bearings in a wide passage filled with portraits of ancient-looking merpeople, he headed off in a direction that may or may not have brought him closer to the fourth-floor and the library.

Luckily, his chosen direction brought him much closer to the desired location. In fact, he found himself almost directly outside of their "Damp Closet of Passionate Lurve," which was, in actuality, just Hogwarts trying to be helpful, but which he took as yet another thing to add to his List of Reasons Why Malfoys Are Superior to Everyone Else Who Ever Existed or is Going To Exist. He could just see it: Reason Number 1,712: A naturally fabulous sense of direction.

It truly was a marvelous list.

He opened the deceivingly anonymous door and sidled inside, letting the door creak closed behind him in a highly ominous manner.

It was very dark. Pansy was not there. There were a lot of bent brooms and some quaffles and a box whose angry vibrating indicated bludgers within, but no matter what resemblance a knocked-up broom or a shaking box of bludgers bore to his girlfriend, they were not her.

He waited.

He was very bad at waiting, mainly because he was insufferably impatient and had grown used to instant gratification after years of living with his mother, but also because, regardless of what he told Blaise Zabini on Monday nights when neither of them could sleep, he really was rather fond of Pansy (she was, after all, very bad at strip poker), and he was, secretly, maybe, in the deepest, most hidden corners of his soul, a smidgen worried about her. One never did know what could happen to a seemingly topless young woman wandering the halls of Britain's oldest and finest wizarding institution. Anything was, indeed, possible.

Of course, Draco couldn't know that Pansy had been stopped by one Minerva McGonagall for the crime of indecent exposure and was relegated to sit in the transfiguration professor's office until McGonagall found time to give her a stern talking to. It was in this manner that she missed the end-of-term feast and also their highly anticipated closet rendezvous, which was lucky for Destiny, as it made her job much easier. Merlin only knows how history would have been altered if Pansy had actually shown up.

He waited a bit more.

The closet was still dark and Pansy-free.

He cast a silencing charm on the door.

Still no Pansy.

His watch ticked. His toe kicked something round and bucket-like. It clanged.

He started singing. "I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts, do-do-dee-do, there they are all standing in a—"

He froze. Someone was standing outside the door, someone who was shuffling their feet and generally being a mess.

Was it Pansy? If so he hoped she'd hurry up with the teasing and find her way through the door, it was really rather dark and—

The door was thrown open. A giggling someone (Poor, predictable Pansy) jumped in beside him and slammed the door shut after her.

An eternity of waiting and the relief of knowing he'd not been stood up pushed him forward as he half-jumped, half-fell onto her, pressing his lips zealously against hers (disgustingly chapped, did the girl not know the wonders of a good balm?) as she muffled a cry of surprise ("_Serves her right!_" he thought.) and then started kissing back. He purposefully began lifting her shirt, as usual, expecting her to giggle like she always did.

But, instead of a giggle, he received a swift kick in the stomach. He slammed roughly against the opposite wall. Brooms clattered and fell. He opened his mouth to ask what business she had inviting him to a broom closet if they were not going to have mad, passionate sex, but she beat him to it.

"Is this your 'big surprise', Ron?" a familiar voice that made him feel like retching and stabbing something all at once said. "A juvenile attempt to get under my bra? How _romantic_!"

He shuddered, momentarily at an uncharacteristic loss for words.

"_Lumos!_" said Granger.

In Draco Malfoy's memoir: _My Life: It's More Interesting Than Yours_, he says that there were three times in his adult life when he lost full control of his emotions. One, he says, was the day his first daughter, Clare, was born. Another was the day he thought his fiancé was cheating on him and collapsed in the middle of Diagon Alley. The third time was the first time he ever kissed Hermione Granger.

"GAAAAH!" he screamed, the sight of her gawking at him with those big beaver teeth combined with the sudden light burned his eyes that much worse.

"Mal—"

"GET OUT!" he roared, throwing open the door and hurling her bodily from the closet. The door slammed after her with a satisfyingly thunderous _BOOM! _and because he had so wisely cast a silencing charm on the door he was not subjected to hearing her protests (which were non-existent.)

_"_EW! EW! GROSS! GROSS! EW! GROSS! EW! EW! GROSS! GROSS! GAH!" he shouted, pounding the walls with his feet and fists, spitting onto the floor. That was so, so wrong. He'd known something was off as soon as he'd noticed her lips were chapped but… he screamed again. The Quidditch Supply Closet was his place! _His_! What gave her the _right_… no, the _nerve_!

He kicked the wall again. A few more brooms fell over.  
"AH!"

The door opened again.

"GO AWAY!" He screamed at her.

"Draco, what's wrong?"

He turned. There was Pansy, full clothed (for the moment) and silhouetted in the doorway.

"N-n-nothing." He took a deep breath and beckoned her into the closet.

"Here," she smiled, watching him through thick eyelashes as she began to unbutton her blouse. "Let me make it better, babe." Her skirt shrunk a bit more.

And thus, Draco Malfoy felt nothing the first time he kissed Hermione Granger. Or rather, he felt nothing positive. He felt repulsed, for certain, and he felt very ill for the next few days, but he didn't feel any magic spark that would show him she was the one. He kissed Pansy Parkinson and trusted that the rushed, heady kisses of teenage love were good enough.

Mostly, he put it behind him. He trusted mudblood Granger not to tell anyone about their close-encounter, and he went back to nodding and smiling whenever his mother talked about his and Pansy's future children. But what he couldn't know, what no one could have known, was that that first kiss, that first, disgusting, sloppy, badly-timed kiss, was the match that would come back to haunt them both when that elusive first spark did flare up.

* * *

A/N: So perhaps this chapter is a bit later than it ought have been. Oh well. I had to have a wrestling match with myself after HBP about whether or not I was going to change my future story plans to match up with this. As you can tell I clearly have not, as we can probably effectively guess that neither Malfoy not Hermione will be at Hogwarts thier 7th year, and so will be unavailable for accidental make-out sessions. Hey, at least neither of them died! (sorry if you haven't read it yet, but you really should have by now) 


	33. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

**"Mondays: What Sunday Threw Up."- PWOP Productions**

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

**In which Ron swaps rhymes with a boy band and Hermione realizes that Jeanie may just have a soul…**

**_September 29, 2003_**

Hermione wondered if every couple had so much trouble getting to a reliable altar; and, if so, why anyone bothered with marriage at all.

The afternoon air was crisp, clear, untouched. It carried the promise of an adventure and a life reclaimed. She gulped it in like divine ambrosia. It smelled faintly of chips.

Promptly getting down to business, she held her wand flat on her palm and cast the four-points spell. It spun for a moment, an impromptu compass, and then froze, pointing north through her stomach. Knowing that she was somewhere around Diagon Alley she made some rough guesses about the proximity of her flat to her immediate location and pointed her wand at a south-ish angle. "_Accio Magi-chat_"

Some miles in the distance she imagined her dresser draw flying open and a small, red, walkie-talkie like object jumping out and flying across muggle London towards her.

A minute passed. She imagined an old woman doing her wash in Chelsea looking up as it zoomed over her head… a little boy flying kites in St. James's… she could almost here it zooming through the air. She opened her eyes. She _could_ hear it zooming through the air!

_Woosh!_

She ducked as a blur of red flew towards her head and fell, clattering to the ground. She frowned, hoping against hope that she'd not broken it.

It buzzed softly in her hand, a crimson, rectangular box with an antenna-like protuberance on its top and three golden Ws on its front. It did not appear broken, which was good, it would have been off-putting if her adventure was forced to end before it was even allowed to begin. She tapped her wand against the "antenna". "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

Fred and George had borrowed the marauder's phrase for many of their newer inventions. The MagiChat was no exception.

"Hermione J. Granger speaking" said a voice that was unmistakably hers, though she'd said nothing. She breathed. When the twins had given her their prototype as a late Christmas present, she'd argued that she had no purpose for a box that talked with her voice. How very very wrong she had been. She leaned back through the window, placing the Magi-Chat on the floor near The Dress, which was crumpled and thrown into a corner, just waiting for her to get as far away from it as she possibly could.

She waited a moment and then:

_Knock! Knock! Knock!_

"Harmony, dear, are you absolutely certain you don't need any help?" Narcissa asked from behind the door.

"No," the box called back. "I'm just admiring how wonderful this looks!"

"Come show us sometime, won't you?" That was Jeanie, teenage snark dripping from her less-than-dulcet tones.

The Magi-chat giggled in a very un-Hermione-ish way. "Don't be silly, Jeanie! I'll only be a minute!"

Satisfied that she wouldn't be missed, Hermione stood and started walking down the alley, freedom filling her lungs. Suddenly, walking wasn't enough; she started to run, leaping out onto the street into a throng of mid-day shoppers. She'd never, she mused, fully appreciated the beauty of the unplanned hour until she tried it herself.

She stopped at a mostly-clean-looking hole-in-the-wall to buy lunch, as she was a bit overdue. "That's four seventy-one," the burly man behind the counter informed her, handing over the foil-wrapped package of warm fish and chips. Hermione took it and handed him the necessary pounds, silently thanking whatever deity was watching over her that she'd thought to bring muggle money (she'd been planning to go grocery shopping after she'd talked to Draco, but that plan had clearly been shot down.) He handed over her change. She started to laugh. There was just something so funny about her, Hermione Granger, clutching fish and chips to her chest like a warm puppy curled in her hand and accepting pounds from a man who smelled like fried potatoes. She hastily stuffed the coins into an unassuming pocket and opened the package. It was beautiful. The little golden chips were piled on top of the fried and battered fish like hay around the baby Jesus. Hermione had a sudden mental image of a fish and chips nativity set and her giggles crescendoed into a torrent of unbidden hilarity.

The burly man watched her with the keen eyes of someone who had dealt with quite a few crazies in his day.

"Eh…" He wiped his brow with a graying washcloth. "What are you on about?"

Hermione grinned in a way that only served to confirm his suspicions. "D'you know...I think I'm feeling a bit..._rebellious_."

* * *

A toned, tan, curly-haired man-boy was standing in Timber Justinlake's mirror. This is was because Timber was, at noon on this fine Monday to trump all Mondays, just finishing up his morning regimen.

He'd washed and blow-dried his hair, applied a quick sheen of Lockhart's Hydro-Magic Moisturizing Spray to his face, mussed a handful of Sleakeasy's through his curls (Most international superstars would recommend Lockhart's stuff, but Timber was addicted to the old-school smell of bottle-fresh Sleakeasy's. It smelled liked sensation, oomph, and petrol.), and run a finger-tip-sized dab of Easy Smile Whitening Balm over his teeth. All that remained was to put on his favorite super-cool medallion. He pulled open a non-descript cabinet, which was charmed to hold roughly the space of a large closet. Inside, the walls were covered with gold and silver dangly things which he affectionately called his "bling". He reached in and pulled out a gold chain with a large, diamond-encrusted _TJ_ dangling on it. It sparkled with the white-hot intensity of one thousand galleons. He threw it over his neck (quite a feat as it weighed three times his right arm) and pouted at his reflection.

"Go get 'em, Tiger." The mirror said.

He was about to respond with a misleading wink when somewhere in the deep bowels of The Mansion a bell started to ring. Timber jumped excitedly and promised the mirror he'd wink at her later.

Someone was at the door.

"I got it!" he shouted, tumbling over chintz settees and through marble doorways. He pushed himself up and over a third-story railing, landing with practiced ease on a long oak banister that wound in loops and curves down through The Mansion's six stories. He started to slide, leaning into carefully polished curves, the banister's magical momentum building behind him as he picked up speed.

Already, shouts of "I'll get it!" were coming from every wing of the building. Timber could hear someone (probably Nick) sliding down the banister after him, and a loud "_Ding_" as he passed the third floor indicated that CJ was taking the lift. He passed a towel-clad Jimmy running out of a shower on the second floor, gaping as Timber whizzed by, willing himself forward. He turned just in time to see the banister's ski-jump finale before he was thrown up and off of it, landing in a clean crouch on the entry hall's hardwood flooring. He cheekily conjured up a hand-mirror to check his reflection, and in that instant something whizzed past him and towards the door. Orlando was on his Firebolt 3000, and he already had his hand on the doorknob.

"Ah, Merlin's knickers, Ocean!" Timber stomped after him.

"Snooze you loose, TJ," Orlando Ocean quipped, smoothing back his dark hair and throwing Timber his most dimpled smile.

Timber pouted and let Orlando open the door, smugly watching Nick, CJ, and Jimmy (who was still dripping water everywhere) as they ran in. At least he'd beat _them _downstairs, even if his banister riding skills _were_ no match for a Firebolt.

"Cheater..." Jimmy muttered, hiking up his towel and glaring through his famous eyelashes (He'd had them insured for ten thousand galleons only a week earlier. Witch Weekly called it a "…brilliant career move…"). Timber stuck his tongue out and was about to tell Jimmy that if he'd bother getting a proper amount of beauty rest every evening he wouldn't be stuck leaping through shower curtains, but before he could Orlando had flung the door wide open and they could all see exactly who was standing there.

"Hey! You're Draco Malfoy!" Orlando had said before any of them could stop him. It was a well-known superstition among the wizarding entertainment community that Malfoys of the younger, male variety could not enter your home unless you recognized who they were, and once they'd entered your home they were likely to suck your pockets dry, Celestina Warbeck was a point in case. She'd not made a single cent since she had tea with Draco Malfoy, and she had yet to tell anyone what they'd done at that meeting.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Ocean," said Draco Malfoy, crossing easily over the threshold, already treating The Mansion as if he'd owned it all his life. He'd changed out of his all-black ensemble and into unbuttoned Pride of Portree robes (the Malfoy family had owned the Prides since 1372) over a dusky, business-type suit and a pair of dark, rimless sunglasses that floated in front of his eyes. The effect of the flowing purple robes over the sharp silver trouser suit was, surprisingly, one of immense wealth and power. "I see you're doing well."

The boys sent collective glares at Orlando, who shrugged and continued with his initiative. "Our latest album's sold loads."

"A new collection of odes." Jimmy cut in. They smiled conspiratorially.

"It sold worldwide, from Vegas to Rhodes." CJ rhymed back, taking up the slack where Nick was yawning sleepily.

Timber smirked. "Now we wait 'til the next one explodes."

They all turned expectantly to Nick, who blinked back at them. "Word."

Draco Malfoy nodded as though he understood perfectly. "So I've heard. Must be great making galleons on a musical word."

The boys threw him sidelong looks. Had he? Could he have possibly? Had he done it on purpose?  
Their questions were answered as another man, a red-haired beanpole in comparison to Malfoy's somewhat diminutive stature, strolled through the open doorway. "Your album took off like a bird," he said, though without any of the enthusiasm that they might have expected. He looked like the sort of man who'd rather regurgitate invertebrates than spend any length of time rhyming with a boy band.

"Over the world it was preferred." Malfoy added.

The redheaded man sighed. "The line between talent and galleons was blurred…?"

The boys considered a moment longer, then simultaneously nodded their approval. Malfoy and co.'s rhyming skills were a bit wanting, but the men were clearly like-minded individuals.

"I'm Orlando Ocean, as you know." Orlando paused to let them admire his dimples. "These are my mates, Jimmy Angel…" Jimmy nodded, hiking up his towel again. "Nick leMoyen…" Nick nodded and all of his carefully brushed blonde hair fell into his face. CJ snickered. Nick was a distantly descended part-veela (a remote relative of the Delacour family, actually), and the youngest of the group. Thus, he was known as The Cute One among the masses, and The Vain One among the boys themselves (though in relation to any normal males they were all quite vain.) "CJ Jones…" CJ bowed dramatically. He was The Silly One, carrying on a long, illustrious tradition of silly musical sidekicks who lived hard and fell harder. Malfoy nodded his approval. The redhead rolled his eyes. "And—"

"Timber Justinlake, of course." Malfoy was watching Timber like a chimaera watches a particularly tasty quidditch player. Timber wasn't sure whether to feel flattered or frightened.

Orlando looked a bit put out that Malfoy had not bothered to recognize any of the other boys, but such was "The Biz". He ploughed on. "What brings you to Casa del Splenda, Mr. Malfoy?"

Malfoy turned back to Orlando, who was often called The Talented One (but that was only because he was.) "I've been meaning to come talk to you for quite some time now and there _is _no time like the present… wouldn't you agree Mr. Justinlake?"

Timber jumped. He'd been staring, engrossed, at the impossibly large ring on Mr. Malfoy's right hand, wondering exactly how it would look hung on a thick, silver chain. "Yeah, er, that's right." He nodded vigorously, forcefully wrenching his eyes away from the unfeasibly large emerald badly hidden underneath the cuff of Malfoy's robes.

"Yes." Malfoy clucked his tongue and withdrew a hefty black briefcase from beneath his cloak. "Anyway, I've not got a lot of time set aside to stay and chat, so I'm going to lay it down straight." He gestured to his red-haired friend. "This is Ronald Weasley. He's here because, well, he's honestly not got anything better to do."

Ronald Weasley looked like he might have said something but Malfoy was just an instant faster than him. "This…" He gestured at the briefcase, which rattled ominously. "...is a briefcase full of galleons."

Jimmy inhaled sharply. He was often called The Rebellious One (though no-one, not even Jimmy, seemed to know precisely what he was rebelling against) but it would be more apt to call him The Greedy One. Jimmy was the one who'd insisted on having one floor per boy, even if they still shared a bedroom on the top floor (five bunks stacked one on top of the other, just like when they were kids) and so having four extra bedrooms was beyond pointless, and even if they subsequently only used one-sixth of the mansion's prodigious space. A briefcase filled with galleons was one of Jimmy Angel's wet dreams (all the others involved barbeque sauce and a foam pit).

"So, it's business then?" Orlando surmised after a long moment in which the boys seemed too spellbound to speak. There was almost certainly some sort of Enticement on Mr. Malfoy's briefcase, because none of them appeared capable of looking away.

"Yes." He smiled venomously. "Yes, it is."

"Well then." Jimmy looked as though Christmas had come early. "…we are NCHANTED at your service."

"N…N…N…N…N…" the boys harmonized, sweeping around from Orlando's (relatively) low tenor to Timber's impossibly high falsetto. "N-Chaaaaan-ted"

"That's charming." Malfoy said. "But I've got a better idea…"

* * *

Luna Lovegood was just settling down to lunch when Hermione Granger apparated onto her front porch.

She was just settling down to lunch because the midday meal at the Lovegood-Longbottom household was quite a job, and even if she started getting it together at noon, she'd likely not get to eat until well after one.

She knew it was Hermione on her porch because she could see her through the open window.

"Hello, Hermione," she called, crossing to the front door.

"Hello, Luna."

Hermione looked, Luna decided, no worse for wear than she had the last time Luna had seen her, which was at Ginny's for the wedding shower. She wasn't dripping water everywhere anymore, Luna noted, but she still looked as though she'd spent far too many of her evenings having her soul sucked out by a gang of gluttonous dementors. "Alright?"

Luna turned back into the kitchen, indicating with a vague wave that Hermione should follow.

"Yeah, I'm just…" Hermione's voice trailed off. She'd apparently never been into Luna's kitchen, which had that effect on a lot of people.

It was, at its core, an ordinary kitchen. There was nothing so extraordinary about Luna's kitchen except for the things on it.

She'd not had time to do the dishes in quite a few days, so a stack of primary-coloured plates and cups was piling up in the sink. The cabinets were painted a neutral off-white, but they were all covered in crayon-markings that Luna simply refused to remove. They were, she said, "art." The walls were likewise covered with "art." The kitchen was plastered from floor to ceiling with little bits of paper covered in unrecognisable doodles and shakily written alphabets. The table in the centre of all this "art" was covered in little bits of food and unidentified liquid, as though a small breakfast-shaped tornado had only just blown through. On the centre of the table, a pot of soup was bubbling and steaming. As Hermione stood frozen in the doorway, Luna began ladling it into three small bowls. "Soup?" she asked, mistaking Hermione's shocked expression for hunger.

"No, thanks." Hermione nodded vaguely and tentatively stepped into the kitchen. "I ate before I came."

Luna shrugged. "LUNCH!" she yelled at the ceiling. "ANATUS! ANOBIA!" For a moment they could hear a small scuffle above their heads, and then there was an explosion of ingenuous giggles as two small children tumbled into the room.

Anatus was the boy, smaller than his sister and with wild, sometimes-brown, sometimes-blonde hair. Anobia was the girl, less than a year older than her brother, her dark hair put up into three lopsided pigtails. They were both covered in finger-paint.

"Mummy!" Anobia whined, crawling up the side of her high-chair and strapping herself in. "Anatus stoled my Sally."

"My Sally!" Anatus giggled, jumping up and down at Luna's feet. "Up! Up!" She deftly obliged, lifting him up and fitting him into his restraint with practiced ease.

"Mummy!" Anobia whined again, once her brother was comfortable. "I hate soup!"

"You'll like this soup." Luna placed a small, red bowl on her daughter's tray. "It's magic."

Hermione thought this an odd statement, as pretty much everything in the wizarding world was magic, but it seemed to work. The little girl excitedly accepted Luna's proffered spoon and began eating with such zeal that most of the soup ended up on her jumper (not that anyone would have noticed with all the finger paint that was already there.)

"They're getting big." Hermione noted as Luna placed Anatus's Feed-So-Easy spoon in his bowl. In an instant, it had begun lifting spoonfuls of brothy soup up and into his open mouth, completely of its own accord.

The last time she'd seen Anatus or Anobia had been—

She tried to remember. Had it been Christmas? She'd spent Christmas with Draco, so that wouldn't have been it. It would have been before then, probably at Anatus's first birthday party, which seemed ages and ages before. But then, everything before The Proposal seemed a world away, and it hadn't even been ten days since!

"What, do you think someone's slipped a swelling solution into the soup?" Luna asked, her eyes widening. She bent down to examine her daughter's nose, which was steadily remaining its original size.

Hermione tried not to laugh. "No, I just mean, they've grown since last I saw them."

"Oh. Well, I have heard that small children grow very fast at this age." Luna nodded and affectionately tugged one of Anobia's pigtails. "But they could also be affected by a swelling solution in this soup, so who knows. I hear you're having one sometime soon."

"What? A swelling solution?" Hermione asked.

Luna laughed. "No, of course not!" She grinned. "A baby!"

"Oh!" Hermione laughed shakily. "Right, that."

"Do you know if it's a boy or a girl yet?" Luna asked.

"Oh." Hermione sat down in the chair beside Anatus, holding her stomach as she imagined any real pregnant woman might. "No, Draco and I…we want to be surprised."

"Oh." Luna sat as well. "Neville and I found out immediately with Anobia. We were so excited, you know? But I guess, since you're not married yet it might be different. I wouldn't know."

Hermione patted her stomach appreciatively. "Yes," she responded lamely.

"But you must have some kind of an instinct." Luna pressed. Not only would the Quibbler love to know how Hermione felt about her kind-of-legitimate-but-not-really love-child, Luna herself was rather curious.

"Well, um…" Hermione's brow bent double in a kind of super-furrow. "I think it's… a girl?" She laughed nervously. "I honestly have no idea."

Luna sighed. "Have you thought of any names yet?"

"Well, for a girl, I was thinking Clare." She latched onto the name she'd told Ron. Hermione had learned quite a bit about lying during her first engagement. Rule number one about the Art of Fabrication was to give everyone the same story, if that was possible.

"Clare?" Luna made a face as though Hermione had just uttered a really foul swear. "That's terribly normal, don't you think? One second, I'll be right back." She stood and walked into the living room, leaving Hermione to watch Anatus and Anobia happily guzzling their lunches.

"Here." She returned a moment later, a terribly thick volume clutched to her chest. The words Names: Alphabetised, Visualised, and Thoroughly Organised Since A.D. 712 were set in peeling gold letters on its spine. Luna flipped it open with a glorious _THUNK!_ on the table.

"Let's see…" she said, "You'll want something that applies to both you _and_ Draco. How about 'Unexpected'." She tapped the book with her fingertips as said 'Unexpected.' The pages began flipping as though in a high wind and then, suddenly, stopped. Luna bent low in order to better examine the page. "Oh! How about 'Nenad'?" she suggested. "It means 'unexpected' in Serbian _and_ Croatian!"

"I don't think—" Hermione began, but Luna cut her off.

"You're right, it's awful. What about…" She tapped the book again. This time she said "Illegitimate."

Hermione was about to tell Luna just how "Legitimate" her baby was (non-existent or no), but the pages had already stopped flipping and Luna was carefully examining a new page.

"Oh! What about Spurius?" she asked. "It means 'of illegitimate birth' in Latin! No? 'Fitzroy', then. 'Son of the King' in Old French. 'Originally given to illegitimate sons'. But you're right, those are a bit silly, aren't they?"

Hermione nodded. Luna once again failed to notice the world-weary look on her face.

"Let's try again. You know it took me _months_ to name Anatus." She flipped back to the front cover. "Let's try something more general." She cleared her throat. "The first daughter of Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger."

The book began flipping again. When it had stopped, Luna was beaming. "'Your daughter's name'," she read, "'should be _Cymbeline Arista Constitia Malfoy'_. Oh, that's almost as good as Anobia!"

Hermione was wearing a look as though Luna had just force-fed her a petrol-flavoured Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean. "Um, yes. It is."

"Cymbeline Arista Constitia Malfoy," Luna repeated. "I like that."

"Hm…" Hermione tapped her fingers irritably on the tabletop. Anobia decided that she'd had quite enough of her soup.

"Mummy! I'm done!" She pounded her fists on her less-than empty bowl. "Milkshake! Milkshake!"

Luna snapped her fingers and a beautiful chocolate shake appeared across the table from Anobia. "You can have that when you've finished your soup," she declared.

"But _mummy_!" Anobia pouted and began half-heartedly pushing around the last bits of broth in the bottom of her bowl.

"Eat!" Luna commanded. She turned back to Hermione. "Why were you here, again?"

"Oh, well," Hermione tried to remember. "The short answer is that I'm hiding from my in-laws."

"And the long answer…?" Luna skilfully lifted the milkshake from the table. It had been slowly but surely moving towards Anobia's outstretched hands.

"I'm shopping for a wedding dress with my in-laws." The milkshake started sliding back on its original path.

Luna frowned. "I never had that problem with Neville," she said. "His parents were really nice when I met them."

Hermione wanted to say that Neville's parents were impartially insane, and so comparing them to Draco's parents, who were more the criminal-mastermind sort of mad, was a fruitless and disappointingly dull exercise, but she felt that doing so might be less than what was considered tactful, so did not. Instead she said: "Well then, I guess I'll be going."

"Yeah, alright. Lovely seeing you."

"Alright, see you at the wedding."

The milkshake fell over.

* * *

Johnson and Smith Muggle Adaptations was really more of a closet than a business. It was, truly, a large closet, but the amount of money made inside of it was comparable to the amount of money made inside of your average-sized walk-in closet.

Every surface in the place was covered in half-repaired television sets, computers split open straight down the middle, post-boxes that were falling apart at the hinges, film projectors dated from the early 1920s, and stereos. There were _loads _of stereos.

It was run by a man named Basil, whose last name was neither Smith nor Johnson, but who thought "Johnson and Smith" sounded much more muggle than "Tasse."

Basil lived in the loft above the "store," and when business was worse than usual (meaning no-one had even come in looking for directions to the icecream shop down the street) he would often play solitaire in his kitchen-area, or tinker with a particularly interesting piece of electricity in his bedroom.

When Basil's Moment came he was playing solitaire on the "store's" dusty front desk. It came in the form of two men and a briefcase.

Basil looked up from his cards when the front door's bell rang.

"Hello, Mr. Tasse," said the first man, the shorter one, as they entered.

"Hello, Mr. …?"

"Malfoy, Draco Malfoy," said the man. Basil smiled. As a wizard who'd spent his life infatuated with muggles, he could appreciate a James Bond allusion when he saw one.

"And what can I do for you, Mr. Malfoy?" he asked.

Basil's card game leapt aside as Malfoy swung his briefcase up and onto the counter. "This, Mr. Tasse," he said, "is a briefcase full of Galleons."

Basil swallowed. Hard.

"And what exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Malfoy?" Basil had seen enough films to know that no one with good intentions travelled around with money-filled briefcases.

"Adaptations," he stated plainly. "I need a few muggle things magically adapted in less than two days time."

Basil considered, but not for long. Clearly, his Moment had come. "Your wish," he stated plainly, "is my command."

* * *

Hermione had been away from Madam Malkin's, according to her watch, for a grand total of "too long." What that meant in terms of actual hours, minutes, and seconds, it refused to tell her; but she knew it wouldn't be good.

She was sitting on a seat in the back of her shop, where she'd spent the time following her visit with Luna Lovegood shifting boxes around and generally getting ready for Tamryn's Late-Fall Fashion Spectacular, which was (predictably) annually attended by Dobby and no one else.

She sighed. The whole hour-long adventure had been grievously under-planned, she decided. For sure, fish-and-chip buying, friend visiting, and box shifting were all well and good, but they weren't quite what one thought of when faced with a responsibility-free hour.

Now, she felt rejuvenated, alive, and ready for a bit of subterfuge.

She pondered.

Hermione could only hope that her in-laws, mother, and Jeanie were still at Madam Malkin's being out-reasoned by a MagiChat. If they'd figured her out… or gone in against the box's urging… She could only hope.

She blew a few strands of wayward hair out of her eyes.

Perhaps she was a little bit tired, and perhaps she also was feeling more a bit rebellious than she gave herself credit for, but she suddenly had one of _those _ideas, and she knew that, although it was almost certainly stupid, it was, at least, a guaranteed adventure, so she made an executive decision to step aside and let it run its ill-fated course.

At least, that's how she thought about it later in life.

At the time it felt a bit like being someone else… a spy, perhaps… or a bond girl.

Hermione smirked in a very un-Hermione (but very Bond-Girl) way. _Pussy Galore, indeed_.

Without taking another moment of consideration she stood and strode out of the store, progressing down the street as though she weren't on a suicide mission.

She stopped a few storefronts later, at a large picture window decorated with rolls of purple fabric and an endless supply of lilac petals that fell from the ceiling. Showcased in the centre was a mass of fabric and bows that appeared to be a close, lavender-coloured cousin of what the Malfoy women might loosely term a "wedding dress". She scowled at it. Her reflection scowled back… she sighed, examining the distinct way that her hair fell in thick, frizzy brown ringlets. She'd certainly be recognized anywhere she went. She couldn't just waltz into Madam Malkin's looking like a woman who was supposedly changing in a back room. That might, she reasoned, be difficult to explain.

She looked up and down the street to make sure no one was watching, then retraced her steps to a thin enclave behind Madam Malkin's junk-shop neighbour.

She'd learned, during the war, a few key tricks to easy disguising.

In the shadows, she waved her wand in a long figure eight over herself. "_Cinderella_" she whispered.

Two minutes later a woman in a sleek white pantsuit, her straight, black hair hidden underneath a cream-coloured scarf, blew up to Madam Malkin's front desk. The scarf flew behind her like a banner: I Am Important.

"_Je suis l'aide d'un mannequin qui veut rester anonyme,_" she rolled off in her fastest and most presumptuous French.

"Uh…" the poor girl on desk duty stammered, her face trying to show far too many expressions at once. "English?"

The Frenchwoman scoffed in her best Narcissa impression and looked to the ceiling as if to say "These English,_ ils ont les nerfs_!" She turned back to the girl and slowly removed her oversized sunglasses. "Eh… _Je ne sais_… 'ow you say… eh…." She clucked her tongue a few times.

Desk-girl was regretting now that she'd taken German in school.

"I am zee… eh… I don' know… eh… I am zee _aide_ of a… model? _Oui_, a model, I theenk… a model 'oo wants for zat you do not know 'er name." She dragged out in an overly-dramatic French accent, rolling the words around on her tongue as though they were the world's most foul chewing tobacco. "You understand?"

"Yes, I think so." The girl started breathing again, though she was still shaking very badly as she picked up a quill and a notepad and set them on the desk in front of her. "What is it that you want?"

"Eh… she wants a… how you say..? eh… a dress for weddings? _Oui_?"

"A wedding dress?"

"_Oui, oui_, _une robe de mari__ée_." The Frenchwoman nodded, slipping easily back into snappish, rapid French. The girl jumped as if she'd been hit.

"Come with me, please," she managed, still shaking, and beckoned her client to follow into the same back room where the Malfoy women were still watching a changing room door with bated breath.

Hermione heaved a sigh of relief once the shop girl was far enough ahead that the sigh could be misconstrued as impatience. She'd not had to speak so much French for many years, not since Bill's wedding. She hadn't thought that she could still do it.

The accent was easy, of course. Ginny and she had spent so many hours during the summer before her sixth year laying out by the Weasley's swimming hole, making fun of Fleur in outrageously dragged out French patois and getting terribly sunburned. Ron called it karma.

"White, of course." The girl said, automatically, but Hermione threw out a hand to stop her, suddenly snapped from her reverie.

"_Rose vif, _I theenk," she said. "'Ot pink."

"Right, of course…" her guide said, as though she'd been thinking the exact same thing, though Hermione sincerely hoped she hadn't been. "This way then." They turned sharply down a side aisle, towards that far corner where Hermione knew a display housing _Creations by Muffin: Five for a Galleon_ was waiting for her.

And there it was, that menagerie of hideousness and fashion don'ts set down in an ignored corner. Desk-girl made to walk straight past it but Hermione made a show of being interested. "_Attendez!_" she snapped, swaggering over to it like a fly drawn to a bug zapper. "Stop 'ere!" She picked through the top few quickly, the ones she'd laughed at only an hour before, then dove her hand deep into the pile, also as she'd done before; but this time she was a woman on a mission… and a Frenchwoman, at that.

She found it quickly, now that she knew it was there. She pulled the buried dress to the surface and saw it for the first time.

It was beautiful, or maybe she only thought so because she'd forgotten what a pretty dress looked like. It was a soft yellow so pale that it was almost, but not quite, ivory. It was strapless, but so unassumingly so that one couldn't imagine it made any other way. The only adornment on its whole being was a single, large, fabric flower the same color as the dress attached over the right bosom… a corsage. It was natural, simple… perfect.

The most perfect part of it, though, was the skirt, which, by looking at it, she guessed would end just below the knee. The skirt swelled from the waist out into a flouncing, twirling, explosion of that fabric of dreams: tulle. She ran her hand lovingly over the many white underskirts, momentarily lost in the way the dress moved when she twisted it from side to side.

"Oh, that's pretty," said a voice beside her.

She couldn't help it, she jumped. She'd forgotten that there was anyone else in the world beside herself and The Dress, yet here was her very own sister, presumably wandering away from the Malfoys to stand beside her, not recognizing her, watching The Dress with a kind of primal fascination.

"Eh…" Hermione cleared her throat, fitting awkwardly back into spy-mode. "_Oui_… it is."

Then Jeanie said something that completely threw Hermione off guard, something that she had to have her repeat because it was so wildly unexpected that she went temporarily deaf.

"Excuse me?" Hermione asked before she could stop herself.

"I said, 'My sister would love that.'" Jeanie repeated.

"Oh… she eez engaged?"

"Yeah." Jeanie flashed her trillion-watt grin (a by-product of being the only full-time child of two dentists), her eyes never leaving The Dress. "Yeah, she is."

"Oh. She is 'ere?"

"Yeah." Jeanie repeated. "She's just back over there… changing for like, ever." She frowned and lowered her voice. "I personally think she's just nervous about showing us how she looks."

Hermione cleared her throat. "Eh… nervous?"

"Yeah. But I don't blame her…" That smile again. "Her in-laws are terrifying… though I couldn't say why. It's just… an air, I guess… not much substance to it. All mouth no trousers… you know."

Hermione nodded weakly, her over-prominent molars cutting into her bottom lip as she tried not to laugh.

"She'd love that, though." Jeanie mimicked Hermione's lip biting (it was a nervous habit they'd both developed as children with abnormally large front teeth.), her eyes still glued to The Dress.

"Eh… oui." Hermione managed.

"I mean, who wouldn't?" Jeanie laughed in that petulant way that only teenage girls can, "Do you… Would you mind if I bought that for her?"

Hermione's lower lip sagged lamely. It was one thing for Jeanie to _think _of her while shopping, but to actually _buy _her something? Such a Random Act of Kindness required a soul that she'd been sure her younger sister simply didn't possess.

She handed The Dress over, her mouth still gaping rather unpleasantly.

"Thank you." Jeanie giggled. "Well… bye." And she was gone in a fan of brown hair as she turned, her high-heeled steps quickly fading away between the aisles.

Hermione continued to stare at the spot where she'd been, simultaneously wondering when the pod people had found time to kidnap her sister and contemplating how she was going to get The Dress back.

* * *

"She's still not out?" The Younger Muggle— Loretta, was it?— said as she returned, a not-quite-ivory dress clutched under one arm.

"No." Narcissa was filing her nails into sharp points with a nail file that she'd attached to the end of her wand and frowning.

"Oh." The Younger Muggle said and flopped down onto the couch beside The Older Muggle (whose named was Rebecca, Narcissa knew at least that much.)

Mum rapped her bony knuckles on the door again. "Come on, Hermione. You can't get married in your bloomers!"

"One minute, I said!" The Bride called back.

"Just come out, Hermia!"

"Hermione." The Younger Muggle, whose face was now buried in a horrendously outdate Witch Weekly, corrected between smacks of horrendously muggle gum.

Narcissa grunted and started filing faster.

Silence again.

"Where did you get that dress, anyway?"

* * *

Hermione made her escape from Madame Malkin's with the air of one who's been defeated at something they never really could have won. She apparated back into the same slimy alley her adventure had started on, her dreams thoroughly crushed, and reversed the Cinderella Spell.

As her hair lightened and curled she climbed back through the window. The "dress" was still there, unfortunately, still crumbled into a spiteful pile in the corner. She shouldn't have been surprised. Any thief who might have thought about stealing it would have taken a good look and then set it on fire before running off with the mirror. No, she shouldn't have been surprised.

She picked up the MagiChat, which was still humming merrily, tapped it once with her wand so that it turned off, and then started the arduous task of getting herself back into the bastard-child of white satin and a sewing machine that was lying at her feet.

Yes, it had been an odd day, and it only looked to be getting worse.

* * *

Aemilia was just ready to put her foot through the door when it flew open and Hermione schlepped the whole elephantine skirt through the door.

She waddled (because that was all you could really do in such a skirt) into the centre of their impromptu sitting area and stopped, for once at an uncharacteristic loss for words.

Ginny surreptitiously scooted her chair back as though afraid the skirt would eat her.

Silence.

A circle of blonde women moved like lionesses around her, prowling counter-clockwise around the monstrosity, gauging it's suitability with their eyes.

"Waistline is…" one of them said.

"Good for growth." another finished.

"Hem is…"

"Middling…good for low shoes but too short if worn with heels."

"She will wear flats."

"Fair enough. Sleeves are…"

"Classic. The bow?"

"I like the bow."

"Me too. Neckline?"

"Perfect. Consensus?"

They stopped.

Hermione cleared her throat. "I know… it's…" She mulled over a more polite way to say 'Vomit-inducing.'

"Wonderful!" Narcissa squealed. "The form! The adornment! The fringe!"

"Eh…"

"The roses!"

"The sleeves!"

"The bow!"

"Eh…"

"Look at the way it shapes her hips!"

"Oh, and those tiers!"

"Like a cake!"  
"And it's so _white_!"

"Eh… yes… about that…"

"The skirt! What hooping!"

"That neckline!"

Narcissa gushed nonsensically. "Oh, Harmony!" she squealed, soulless tears forming on the corners of her eyes. "Take it off and then let's go buy it!"

* * *

A/N: Wowee. That took forever to write. First, my apologies. I've been getting distracted left and right for about a month and a half, which is terrible form when all of you are waiting. First, it was band season. Then, my brother took the computer every opportunity he could and I couldn't write. Also, I've decided to stop writing such short chapters, which is why this is so long, and I wanted to fit in much more than, I realized, should actually be fit into a chapter. XD Anyways, here it is, I hope you're all happy. Next chapter: Hermione goes to the salon.

My challenge for you: Write me a new summary for this story. I like my old one, but I'm thinking maybe a replacement is in order?

As always, REVIEW. You know you want to. Come on... come to dark side, we have cookies!

P.S. Sorry if it seems a bit weak in places, I just really wanted to get it out so y'all could stop waiting. Love, Jo


	34. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

**"I had a lot of dates but I decided to stay home and dye my eyebrows."- Andy Warhol**

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

**In which Draco and Hermione miss a cornucopia of opportunities to run into one another…**

**_September 29, 2003_**

When Madeleine "Kissy" Kissimmee hit it big, so they said, she paid four grand-sorcerers part-timing as architects and ski ball-machine repairmen two-hundred-thousand galleons each to enlarge a Barbie Dream House and everything inside of it (including some of the clothing) to an inhabitable size so that she could live out her days in true pop-princess style, no mean feat as the charm had to be replenished once a year until the end of time… but the money was good and they really were very drunk at the time, so they consented.

Draco wasn't sure if he believed it, but he could see why someone would. Kissy Kastle sat atop a lush, rolling green hill at the end of a street lined with many other indescribably large houses. It was a lurid shade of pink, surrounded by all manner of wicker knick-knacks that did nothing to detract from the "dream home" effect. It was also made entirely out of plastic, which was really how the myth had started.

"Well…" he said to a completely aghast Ron Weasley, who was having trouble taking his eyes off of a particularly awful lawn ornament. "Let's hope she let's us in."

"Er... right…. I'm thinking—"

"— That I'd better go this one alone? Spectacular. I was just having the same thought. See you in a bit."

"Hey! No! I said I'd do this for Hermione, but I said _nothing_ about letting you go into pink, plastic houses completely alone with Kissy "The Human Sperm Bank" Kissimmee!" Ron grabbed Draco's sleeve before he could turn away and make a successful break for the front door.

"…And her abundant assets," Draco added once Ron had finished, scowling at Ron's hand on his sleeve.

"Yes, and her _assets_."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Look, Weasley. I've known Kissy for _five years_. I can tell you that this will not go smoothly if you come in with me."

"Why?"

"_Why_?"

"What are you gonna do that I can't be there for?"

"I'm not going to _shag_ her, if that's what you mean… I think I'm in it quite far enough without being _that_ stupid."

"Like I'd believe that." Ron scowled, but let go of Draco's sleeve nonetheless.

Malfoy smirked (no surprise there) and said, "You wouldn't happen to be a fan, Ronald?"

Ron made a face, but couldn't hide the slight pink tinge that conquered his cheeks. "Of course not, I'm just looking out for my friend."

"_Right_."

"Hey! If it wasn't for me you wouldn't even be paying this visit to your little 'friend,' so I'd show a little _gratitude_ if I were you."

Draco turned on his heel and started up the hill. He called back over his shoulder, "So I guess we no why you're _not_ me, then. Eh, Weasley?"

Ron scowled at his back but didn't follow. Draco gave himself a mental pat on the back and hurried faster up the hill.

He hadn't quite been telling the truth to dear Ronald… truly, he was going to _try _and not shag Kissy. He'd said it himself, he was "in it quite far enough without being _that_ stupid,"; but one never did know what to expect from the pop princess on any given Monday… and it certainly was a Monday.

He reached the clean, white front door and knocked three times. A small, periscope-like metal tube extended from the keyhole.

"Please state your name and the nature of your visit," said the disembodied, unmistakably sweet voice of Kissy Kissimmee.

Draco rolled his eyes impatiently. Ever since gossip-mongering "reporters" from Witch Weekly had started hiding in her teapots and sneaking in through her milk box, Kissy (who had always been a bit dramatic, anyway) had fired all her help and practically locked herself inside her mansion, trusting no one but herself to monitor who and/or what went in and/or out. It was a bit ridiculous.

"Draco Malfoy. Open the door."

"State your business, please," said the metal tube.

"Kissy, this is ridiculous, open the door."

The tube _hmph_ed. "I can't let you in until you tell me what you want."

"_Kissy_!"

"_Dracikins_!" her voice whined. "I can't let you in 'til you cooperate!"

"But it's _me_!"

"How can I know that? You could be one of _Them_."

"But I'm _not_."

"You would say that even if you _were_."

Now it was his turn to _hmph_. "Fine. You win. I don't have time for this." He leaned close to the tube. "I need to ask a _favor_."

Instantly, the door flew open.

"Dray-Dray?" the impulsive starlet threw herself onto him in a lavish show of bottled affection, completely as though she hadn't just been refusing to let him inside. "Where have you _been_? It's been eons and eons! Much too long."

He choked on the smell of her sugary sweet perfume and awkwardly patted her on the back with one hand while trying to brush her hair out of his face with the other. "Much too long…right."

She jumped back and pulled him inside. He took the opportunity to evaluate her appearance. Her hair was a new shade of blonde…very bleached, but more yellow than his own. It was curled into loose waves that framed her heart-shaped face. She was wearing a lot of shiny pink lip-gloss on her famous pout, and lavender eye shadow that matched the floor-length robe she was wearing. She looked more stretched than when he'd last seen her, but only his eye for picking out weaknesses would have noticed the almost-invisible circles under her eyes and the unhealthy emptiness of her cheeks.

"Close the door, quick!" she said, backing away from the threshold again. "If it's open even a second too long _They_ can get in!"

He did as she said.

"Perfect. Now, as I said before, _where_ have you been?"

He followed her through the white, completely plastic foyer and into a pink and purple living room. "Oh, here and there. You'll never believe the day I've had, Kissy."

"Really? Here, I'll make us drinks. You tell me all about it." She opened up a hot-pink armoire and brought down two cocktail glasses and a mixer.

He sat down on one of the long, pink couches. "Well, this morning I dropped by Cleo McMillan's dance studio… you know Cleo, right?" She nodded. "Of course, she choreographed for your show a few years ago, didn't she?" She nodded again and started filling the mixer with gin and orange juice. "Insufferable witch. Anyway, I had some business to do there so I cornered her in the bathroom." He caught the look on her face and smirked. "Yes, the bathroom. I didn't have a lot of time to deal with her, so… you know." She tapped the mixer with the tip of her long, white wand. "Then after that I had to go visit NCHANTED—"

She snapped to attention. "Really?"

"Really. I, personally, am still amazed that they're all living in that one mansion together. In the same room, I'm told."

"It's true, I went there last year for their Christmas party," she said, and started pouring from the mixer. "They sleep in five bunk beds stacked one on top of the other… like soldiers or something."

He laughed darkly. "How… _quaint_."

"What did you do then?"

"You know that muggle adaptation store in Hogsmeade? Wait, no, of course you don't. No one does. The place hasn't made a knut since it was opened. Anyway, I had to stop in there to ask Mr. Tasse, that's the wizard who owns the accursed place, a favor. And now I'm here."

"Drinks done!' Kissy declared and handed him one of the gin and sins. "Now let's see…" she said, tossing her head to the side in a blatantly coy flip. "Dancers…" she sat beside him, resting her elbow on his shoulder. "Boy bands…" He scooted away. "And muggle adaptations…" She followed. "And now you're visiting me… Why, Dracipoo, if I didn't know any better I'd think you were putting on a _show_."

"It's not quite so simple as that, I assure you." He scooted away again.

"Then what _is _it, Mr. Malfoy. Tell me, please." She followed again. "I just _love_ the sound of your voice."

"Do you now?" He was practically cornered against a plastic armrest. "Well, I would love to tell you…"

"Would you?" She placed her elbow on his shoulder again and traced one pink-nailed finger along the part in his hair. "Then do."

"I need to ask a favor of you." He tried to shrink down away from her fingers and elbows but only found himself further pinned to the couch.

"So you said." She leered in what she obviously thought was a seductive way. "_Oh, come and stir my cauldron…_" she sang, almost teasing.

"Well… as you probably have heard…"

"_and if you do it right…_" He tried to push himself away and off the couch as one of her hands slid slowly but surely under his waistline.

"My fiancé and I…"

She jumped away from him as though burned. "Fiancé!" She screeched and quickly closed her robe.

He rolled his eyes. "Kissy, you get the papers. You _knew _I was engaged."

"I could have shagged you, and you would have let me!"

"Kissy, obviously you weren't paying very close attention, but I was desperately trying to get away while you were trying to seduce me with Celestina Warbeck's greatest hits!"

"Oh, so now I'm the slag here?"

"YES!"

She visibly deflated. "What did you want, then?"

"Like I SAID, before you became enraptured by my pants, I need to ask a favor, and I'm willing to pay copious amounts of money for your cooperation."

* * *

While her fiancé was off doing Something Mysterious and failing to be seduced by Kissy Kissimmee, Hermione was also off and failing at quite a few things, but she would never have said that there was anything mysterious about the waiting room at _Les Decouper Ivres_, which was where the Malfoy women had dragged her after purchasing what might have been loosely termed a "wedding gown".

Contrary to her original thought, that the place was either a bar (She knew enough French, at least, to know that the seemingly fashionable title actually meant "The Drunk Scissors") or a place where prospective mothers-in-law took prospective daughters-in-law to torture them, _Les Decouper Ivres_ was a very Chic salon. Naturally, it was filled with very Chic people doing very Chic things, like wearing all white and drinking bo bo tea. Hermione felt like a sore thumb in her casual t-shirt and jeans.

Narcissa and Co. had abandoned her at the door, saying that they had all made appointments beforehand and she would have to wait a bit before the head stylist let her through. She wasn't surprised. She _was_ surprised to find herself wishing they hadn't left her alone, when that was the only thing she'd wanted at all only a half-hour before. There was nothing for it but to wait, though. If she ever wanted to talk to Draco again she'd have to sit tight and wait… and wait.

She twiddled her thumbs and ate cucumber finger sandwiches. The sandwiches were quite good but they might as well have been peanut butter and tripe for all the joy they gave her.

_Why, why, why didn't anyone think to check Rita Skeeter's facts?_

But then, why did they have to? What was nature's purpose in creating a witch like Rita Skeeter at all?

She couldn't answer, and so only sulked.

She picked up a copy of Witch Weekly and absently stared at the first page she turned to.

All her problems would be solved if Draco suddenly showed up at the salon. Then, at least, they could talk and maybe go home. But what were the chances of _that _happening?

* * *

"All right, Weasel, you go in first."

Ron glared at Malfoy's back as they stopped before the storefront of their next intended destination on Diagon Alley. "Should I ask why, or would that only slow us down more than picking up that one—" He jerked his thumb in Kissy's general direction "—already did."

Malfoy huffed and turned to face him. "We need to make sure _she's_ not already in there! If she saw us it could blow the entire operation!" He snapped, and then smirked. "You'll be the least conspicuous."

"Of course, why didn't I think of that?" Ron rolled his eyes and headed into _Les Decouper Ivres_, a Very Chic salon in a Very Chic part of Diagon Alley. He really didn't think that being abnormally tall with flaming red hair and a displeasingly long nose made one "inconspicuous," but he was sick of arguing with Draco Malfoy and so bottled his frustration for the time being.

Inside was white with very low-hanging, very bright lighting fixtures. He half-heartedly scanned the room. As far as he was concerned, Malfoy was being ridiculous. What on Earth would Hermione have been doing in a _salon_ of all places? Last they'd heard she was looking for Draco, and it was mutually assumed she was still at it.

Quite suddenly, he snapped to attention, frozen in spot, his mouth gaping dryly at the very witch he'd been looking for, who sat, oblivious to his attentions, on one of the Very Chic white chaise lounges.

He slowly backed away and out of the salon.

"Well? Spit it out, Weasel," Malfoy commanded, once he'd got out.

Ron blanched. "She's in the there," he whispered, his voice like sandpaper.

Draco's eyes snapped to alert. "What? What's she doing?"

"I don't know… reading a magazine."

Draco nodded. "All right, we'll just have to remain as inconspicuous as possible."

"Right."

The strange trio entered the salon as quietly as possible. The witch behind the desk beamed and opened her mouth to greet Draco, but he put a fast finger to his lips and she smiled knowingly, casting a furtive glance to her left and Hermione. Draco did the same. His fiancé was still deeply engrossed in her magazine. They inched forward.

A wizard watching them sneak across the waiting room dropped his ceramic cup of bo bo tea. It shattered on the clean floor with a resonating crash. Draco stopped breathing.

* * *

Hermione looked up at the sound of a ceramic cup breaking. The poor wizard who had dropped it was looking embarrassed and frowning at something, presumably the mess, on the floor. She turned back to the magazine.

* * *

Ron breathed heavily. The floor was very cold under him. When the inconveniently clumsy wizard by the door dropped his cup, he'd done what seemed most natural and hit the floor, dragging Kissy and Malfoy with him. Luckily for them there was a god who liked them (or at the least, sympathised with their motives) somewhere in interior decorating who had placed a long, white couch right beside the place where they fell. Laying on the floor, catching his breath, and trying to decide what to do next, he silently thanked the God of Interior Decorating and cursed the man who invented bo bo tea.

"_Crawl._" Malfoy directed, almost too quiet to be heard.

Ron balked. "_What!_"

But Malfoy had already started crawling towards the front desk, and there was nothing to be done but follow him. He indicated that Kissy should come along and they, too, started dragging themselves towards the receptionist, who was watching them with a look of extreme amusement. And so, the pop princess, the ex-fiancé, and the white-blonde heir arrived at the front desk.

Draco gestured that the witch at the desk should lean down so he could talk with her. She rolled her eyes in a gesture strongly reminiscent of Ron and did so. He craned his neck to whisper something in her ear. She smiled at the still oblivious Hermione again and then gestured for them to come behind the desk. They did.

Behind the desk was cluttered with boxes of snacks and files stuffed with half-filled-out paperwork. When they'd all squeezed in the witch leaned down and handed Draco a tiny bronze key, saying "There's a door in the back, on the left, with a burn on its bottom edge. That's my office. You can use it for a few hours until we close."

Draco nodded and took the key.

* * *

Hermione was halfway through glaring at a Witch Weekly article about Celestina Warbeck's husband's recently uncovered affair when the witch at the front desk botched her name.

"Harmony LaGrange?" she called out, her voice made megaphone-loud by the wand-tip she held to her lips.

Hermione dropped the magazine and stood, crossing to the desk with as much poise as she could muster. "Yes, that's me," she said, flashing her daughter-of-dentists smile.

"Follow me." The receptionist stood and Hermione followed her to the back of the salon, past Cordelia Malfoy having some sort of white potion painted onto her face, past Narcissa and Aemilia getting red lacquer applied to their claws, past her own mother and sister having something that glowed with a soft golden light applied to their hair. "Terribly sorry about the wait." She smiled and gestured for Hermione to sit before a large, slick mirror. "We're just so busy today. Hilary will be with you in a moment. If you need anything just call me, my name is LaLaine."

Hermione nodded absently. Only a few minutes before, this 'LaLaine' character had been snapping at her to take a seat, they were too busy to deal with her anytime soon. Now it seemed her personality had done a U-turn. It surprised Hermione how little this bothered her. She had, apparently, sometime during the last week, grown used to people acting in strange, irrational ways. A week before she might have pondered the reasons behind LaLaine's change of heart, but just then she leaned back and chalked it up to multiple personalities and the negative effects of hair-dye fumes.

She didn't have much time to lean back, though, because a moment later a bubbly twenty-something with bleached blonde hair streaked with red popped up on her left and started bubbling away in something akin to English. "'Ello! I'm Hilary! I'll be your stylist today! I just love your hair! We don't have much time today, so we're going to try to do everything at once! This is Raven!" She indicated a dark-skinned woman by Hermione's right elbow. "She'll be doing your facial! This is Adam and his assistant, Jake!" Two short, curly haired men nodded from near the mirror. "They'll do your nails! When we're all done a woman named Christy will do your make-up! Isn't that nice!"

Hermione could tell by the exclamation point at the end that it was not a question, and so did not respond. In an instant the chair had been turned away from the mirror and flipped into a flat position. A bowl was placed below her head and Hilary started washing her hair.

"Close your eyes," the woman named Raven commanded. Hermione obeyed. Before she could even notice people moving around her, every part of her was having something done to it. Her shoes had been removed and her toenails and fingernails were being simultaneously prepped for and manicure and a pedicure. Something that smelled vaguely like a strange mix of avocado and lime was being rubbed over her face in cold, circular strokes; and Hilary was running citrus-scented shampoo through her hair. She felt like she'd suddenly become the central component of a terrifyingly efficient machine. It was rather like going to the orthodontist.

* * *

As Hermione was worked over like a piece of barely-salvageable meat, Draco and Ron were busy working over their own plots in a back office of the salon.

"What are _you_ thinking?" Draco asked. They'd been poring over the same piece of paper for a half-hour. The little pictures drawn on it had consequently lost all meaning and neither of them really wanted to deal with it. If it wasn't such a vital piece of The Plan to Win Hermione Back they might have scrapped it.

Ron started. He hadn't actually been thinking about anything except how very nice Kissy's lazy curves looked in her light, flowy robe— she was reclining against the far wall with her legs at her chest so the fabric fell in particularly pleasing ways.

"Um… I think we're not going to be able to do that ourselves," he improvised.

Draco nodded. "Would you go out there and ask LaLaine to send an owl to Dean Thomas?"

"Why? Dean hates you."

"This is his area of expertise, isn't it? And besides, nobody hates money."

"But—"

"Just do it."

"What would I _tell_ him?"

"Tell him that you, Draco Malfoy, and a briefcase full of galleons need him to come to _Les Decouper Ivres _and build something."

Ron didn't bother arguing further. He was glad for any reason to get out of the room.

Once he'd left, Kissy was quick to fairly propel herself off of the wall and onto the table, where she assumed a pose that she clearly considered alluring. "_Draco…_" she purred.

"Kissy?" He picked up the drawings again, anything that would let him ignore her.

"My skirt is riding up. Can you fix it?"

He glanced at the offending garment. She wasn't lying. He glared at her. "Are you _five_?" She shook her head. "Enfeebled?" She shook her head again. "Then why can't you lift up your arm and pull it down your_self_?"

She pouted and grabbed his wrist. "Because I like the way _you_ do it."

"Well, I _don't _do it, so apparently you _like_ having your skirt at an unflattering length."

She _hmph_ed and leaned closer to him. "_Draco Malfoy what's your problem…_" she sang. He rolled his eyes pushed her away.

"Go find Christy, or something," he snapped. She giggled. She had an oddly musical laugh.

"Why would I do a silly thing like _that_?"

"Because _you're_ the entire reason we're here. We don't need to work on _this_ here. We need to work on _you_ here. I was going to wait until Thomas got here so we could measure you for this…" He jabbed at the drawing. "But you're being an insufferable slag is vexing me and that really isn't helping us to get _anything_ done." She looked as though she were about to pitch a fit so he set his stare and pointed authoritatively towards the door. "_Go_."

* * *

"Hi, I'm Kissy."

Hermione mentally rolled her eyes (she couldn't actually do so because she had cucumbers over them) and managed an unfriendly "Hm…"

A few minutes before, the salon-machine had taken a break from working her over and left her with vegetables on her eyes and paste on her face. To her own surprise, she had almost been enjoying it until the peaceful silence was shattered by someone getting her hair done in the next chair over who, Hermione could only guess, wanted to be her new best friend.

"I just love getting my hair done, don't you?"

"Hm…"

"Not so much now, though."  
"Hm…" Was the witch deaf or just irreverently dumb?

"And I just got this new haircut, Lockhart's flaxen blonde number 5, see? But of course, you can't." She giggled. The hairs on the back of Hermione's neck stood on end.

"I'm gonna be in a—" The girl's last word was cut-off and Hermione heard her utter an oddly muffled squeak.

"What was that?" she asked against her better judgement.

"I… just got a new job."

"Hm…"

"My _employer_ is making me go brown. Yuck. He's a major prick, though. He wants me to look like his _ex-_girlfriend." She drew out the _ex_ for reasons Hermione didn't feel like fathoming and continued. "How creepy is _that_?"

"Very."

"And brown is so not my colour."

"Mhm."

"Ugh… briefcase full of galleons my arse…"

"Mhm." Hermione started drifting off again. She was starting to get used to the high-pitched whine of the witch's voice, and so better able to tune it out.

"Stop it!" The girl suddenly snapped. Hermione jumped. She couldn't imagine what she'd done. "She's not even paying attention, you could just say it if you _wanted_!" Ah, the annoying little tramp had a boyfriend of some sort lurking around making signals at her… probably lewd ones by the sound of it.

"Your boyfriend?" she asked.

"My… _fiancé_."

"Huh."

"You married?" The girls voice took on an oddly sinister quality that Hermione couldn't place.

"Not yet."

"Engaged?"

"Unfortunately."

"Why _unfortunate_?"

"Long long long story." Hermione answered honestly.

"Your fiancé a prick?"

"Sometimes."  
The witch paused, presumable signing to the fiancé again. "You love him?"

"Of course."

"Hm…" Hermione ignored the disappointment in the girl's voice. She was imagining it, of course. "Well, me too."

"Wonderful."

"Say…" That sinister, unplaceable quality again. "Have you heard about that _Granger_ girl with the ridiculous name who left _Draco bleeding Malfoy_ for a _Weasley_… and pregnant, too." That oddly musical giggle again. Hermione felt a sudden, unexpected rush as she realised she was about to hear gossip about herself. Apparently having cucumber on one's eyes was as good as polyjuice. "I heard they'll be breaking off the engagement any day now, too. Ridiculous. It's like the girl can't keep an engagement longer than a few hours!" The witch sounded practically ecstatic at this news. Hermione wondered what she'd ever done to make anyone hate her so much.

She cleared her throat and dragged the subject back to her fake pregnancy. "Pregnant? You don't say."

"Oh, everyone's saying it. Apparently she screamed it at his father and now he's forcing them to get married! And now she's run off. It's absurd, of course. His family is still pretending nothing's happened."

"You don't say."

"I, for one, have trouble believing she's pregnant, actually. I can't believe a man as suave, handsome, rich, well-bred, and, well, _smart_, as him would ever shag _that_." Suddenly, Hermione understood the witch's dogmatic hate. She was clearly insane. "It's hard to argue with evidence, though. I mean, look at her stomach!" Hermione was getting sick of people making jabs at her baby-less stomach. She resolved to take up pilates as soon as she found the time. "It's obvious enough that there's _something_ going on there, don't you think?"

Hermione started, realising it was her turn to say something. "Mmf."

"I wonder what she'll name it, though. The Malfoys have a long history of beautiful names. I mean, just _look_ at them! Granger, though… I don't know."

Hermione pressed her luck. "I heard she was going to name it Clare."

The witch made a sound like she was retching. "Clare? Ew. I, for one, find Kissy to be a desirable, beautiful, classy name for either gender."

Now it was Hermione's turn to feel like retching. She managed a weak "Mhm" before the witch went off on a long monologue about the beauty and history behind a name like Kissy.

* * *

"Do you want the simple answer, or should I explain it for you?" Dean said through gritted teeth.

Draco had learned, since Dean's arrival a few minutes before and among other things, that Dean still nursed a bitter chip on his shoulders about Draco gate crashing his and Lavender's wedding. He was only there, he had informed them upon arrival, because he could use a few hundred extra galleons. Draco assumed this was because Lavender had just announced the impending arrival of their first child, as he'd read in the _Prophet_'s society pages, but didn't bother mentioning it in the interest of time. "Simple."

They were sitting around an enlarged version of Draco's scribbled drawings, and Ron had just explained the general idea of what they were for to a very sceptical Dean.

"It can't be done," Thomas stated simply, as he'd promised.

Draco nodded as if he understood. "Could it be done if I paid you _more_?"

Dean glowered and jabbed an irritated finger at the drawings. "What you're asking me to do…" He paused and shook his head as though he'd just been thrust into a bizarre dream. "What you're asking me to design, build, and run… it couldn't be done for one-hundred-thousand galleons within the time you're asking me to do it."

"Could it be done for two-hundred-thousand galleons?"

Dean chuckled darkly, then turned abruptly serious. "Don't be ridiculous, Malfoy. Not even you have _that_ kind of money to spend on…" He flicked the paper distastefully. "…_rotating crystal staircases built over twenty-four hours_."

"You'd be surprised how much money I have to spend on this plan," Draco intoned. Dean shook his head again.

"It's impossible. If you want someone to try, find a man who likes failing. _I don't_."

"Oh, there's no room for failure, Thomas." Draco pointed authoritatively down at the sheet. "This is an imperative part of the operation."

"I understand, but what you're talking about…platforms that rise and fall on command, a lighting spell that flickers on and off without manual operation, crystal stairs that _melt _in an instant and then rebuild themselves step-by-step, for Merlin's sake…It's never been done… much less in one night."

"But this is your area of expertise, isn't it? Designing fantastic, never-before-seen structures? Pulling together impossible operations?"

"Well, yes…" The artist nodded reluctantly. "But this is nothing like building bridges of cold fire over Hogsmeade for Fawkes night, or even like that moving, fire-breathing glass dragon for the Weird Sisters last year… those I had notice months, a _year_ in advance. This…" He shook his head again. "It can't be done, and that's the last word on it."

"We'd give you a team."

"No team in the world would be able to put up a self-transporting, specifically-targeted, maintenance-free, long-range voice-projection field in one night. The thing doesn't even _exist_."

"Not yet. Think about it…" Draco leaned forward across the table and lowered his voice. "Isn't this _exactly _what you dreamed of leaving Hogwarts? Big, important, ground-breaking projects; making things people had never even _dreamed _of into reality; being _paid _to tackle the impossible." He dug deep and pulled out one last bit of inspirational sap. "_This is the dream_," he whispered.

Ron snorted. Dean cocked his head to the side, thinking about it.

Draco nodded. "While you consider that I'm going to go check on Kissy."

Now it was Ron's turn to glower. "What's she doing that she's not here, again?"

"She's getting her hair done. What _else_ does one do in a salon?" Draco smirked and left the room.

* * *

"Hi, I'm Kissy." Kissy took a seat in the comfortable reclining-chair beside the woman with green paste on her face, cucumbers on her eyes, and foil in her hair. Her favourite salon past time was making friends with the people that couldn't see you.

"Hm…"

Christy started painting heavy, dark, hair-dying potion onto her flaxen locks. "I just love getting my hair done, don't you?"

"Hm…" The woman was not proving very friendly. Or maybe she was deaf?

"Not so much now, though."

"Hm…"

Kissy pouted at herself in the mirror. "And I just got this new haircut, Lockhart's flaxen blonde number 5, see? But of course, you can't." She giggled as she noticed the woman's cucumber-laden eyes again. "I'm gonna be in a—" Suddenly, her mouth was covered by a pale hand. She let out a muffled squeak of protest and looked up to see whose hand it was. She stopped protesting when she saw it was Draco. She'd known he loved her! His desperate need to touch her had been translated into a need to cover her mouth. It was something, at least. She smiled against his palm.

"What was that?" the woman asked. Draco mouthed something that Kissy didn't understand.

_What? _she mouthed. He grabbed a lipstick off of the counter and wrote "That's Hermione!" in big pink letters on the mirror. The stylist glared at him. Kissy covered her own mouth. "Answer her!" he wrote under the first message.

"I… just got a new job." Kissy managed shakily.

"Hm…" She hadn't noticed anything. Draco breathed.

Kissy smiled mischievously and set one of her heels on Draco's lap (he was sitting on the counter, now) as Christy folded her hair further into foil rolls. "My _employer_ is making me go brown. Yuck. He's a major prick, though. He wants me to look like his _ex-_girlfriend." She dragged out the _ex_ and traced her toe up his thigh. He pushed her leg away. "How creepy is _that_?"

"Very."

"And brown is so not my colour," she whined. Draco pushed her leg away again.

"Mhm."

"Ugh… briefcase full of galleons my arse…" Draco frowned and started signalling to her that she was an ungrateful slag.

"Mhm." Hermione replied, clearly off in her own cucumber-coloured world.

"Stop it!" Kissy got fed up with trying to signal back and kicked him. "She's not even paying attention, you could just say it if you _wanted_!"

"Your boyfriend?"

Kissy had what appeared to her to be a brilliant idea."My… _fiancé_," she said and smiled roguishly. Draco glared at her.

"Huh."

"You married?"

"Not yet."

"Engaged?"

"Unfortunately."

"Why _unfortunate_?" Kissy watched the look on Draco's face turn inevitably to curiosity.

"Long long long story."

"Your fiancé a prick?" Kissy prodded.

"Sometimes."

"You love him?"

"Of course."

Kissy deflated. Her brilliant plan had backfired in the most predictable way, and that was no fun. "Hm…" She sulked. "Well, me too."

"Wonderful."

"Say…" A hint of sparkle appeared back in her eyes. She kicked her foot back into Draco's lap. "Have you heard about that _Granger_ girl with the ridiculous name who left _Draco bleeding Malfoy_ for a _Weasley_… and pregnant, too." Draco glared at her. Kissy continued to prod. "I heard they'll be breaking off the engagement any day now, too. Ridiculous. It's like the girl can't keep an engagement longer than a few hours!"

"Pregnant? You don't say," Hermione replied, her voice dripping with apathy.

"Oh, everyone's saying it. Apparently she _screamed_ it at his father and now he's forcing them to get married! And now she's run off. It's absurd, of course. His family is still pretending nothing's happened."

"You don't say."

"I, for one, have trouble believing she's pregnant, actually. I can't believe a man as _suave_…" She inched her foot further into Draco's lap. "…_handsome_…" A bit further. "…_rich_…" She slouched down in her chair. Christy tried to protest but her foot was already dodging his attempts at swatting it away and moving up his inner-thigh. "…_well-bred_…" She smiled impishly and stopped her leg in its pursuit of Draco Malfoy's zipper for one last drawn-out compliment. "…and, well, _smart_, as him would ever shag _that_." Draco pushed her leg back so hard that her knee hit her chest. She frowned bitterly. "It's hard to argue with evidence, though. I mean, look at her stomach!" she snapped. "It's obvious enough that there's _something_ going on there, don't you think?" They both turned to the oblivious Hermione to see what she would say.

"Mmf," was all.

"I wonder what she'll name it, though. The Malfoys have a long history of beautiful names. I mean, just _look_ at them! Granger, though… I don't know."

"I heard she was going to name it Clare." Kissy made a face at Draco, who had stood and was walking away.

"Clare?" She pretended to vomit. "Ew. I, for one, find Kissy to be a desirable, beautiful, classy name for either gender."

"Mhm"

* * *

"All right! Are you ready to see the brand new you!" Hilary exclaimed. Hermione doubted she was capable of doing anything _but_ exclaiming. Once again, it wasn't a question, so she didn't respond. She laid back and let herself be turned toward the mirror. Then she let herself not say anything… and not say anything… and not say anything.

She had read, once, that some people simply froze when they received a great enough shock. As her body refused to move she wondered if that was happening to her.

"So… do you like it!" Hilary exclaimed.

Hermione forced her jaw to unclench, forced her hands to stop gripping the black-leather armrests, forced her nose to take in air, forced her lungs to convert oxygen into carbon dioxide.

_Breathe_. _Breathe. This isn't the worst thing that's happened all day, anyway._

It was a good thing that Hermione had got used to bad, irrational things happening to her, because if anyone had dyed her hair blonde a week before she would have hurt them. Badly. As it was she turned as calmly as she could to the beaming ball of exclamation points beside her and said as calmly as she could: "It's blonde."

"Yes! Mrs. Malfoy and I talked it over and we decided that a nice, warm, flaxen blonde would work best with a face like yours! As opposed to that hideous, strange brown you'd been working with before! Can you say unflattering!"

Hermione ran a hand through her salon-soft hair (that, at least, was nice). A section of warm, almost-platinum but definitely flaxen (at least Hilary knew her colours) blonde hair fell into her face.

She breathed, stood, forced her mouth shut, and walked out, grabbing her sister on the way through the waiting room.

She waited to scream until they were well down the street.

* * *

When Dean Thomas had been paid and persuaded to build Draco's staircase, Kissy's hair had been dyed a warm, chocolate brown and then permed, and Draco had been able to cross through the waiting room without being stopped by one of his cousins on her way to the bathroom, Ron and he regrouped to go over the day's activities at the only place they were certain to go unrecognised: a muggle restaurant called Mancini's, which Ron vaguely remember coming to while Hermione and he were still together.

It was the sort of small place where the tables were arranged very closely together and the napkins always smelled like tomato no matter how many times you washed them. The floor was covered in hard, brown ceramic tiles and a lot of empty blue and green bottles lined a plant-laden shelf along the top of the far wall. The host, who identified himself as Paco (Draco wondered what had happened to the Mancini advertised in the place's name) seated them at the only remaining table for two, right next to a sort of aisle that had been made through the tables. Across the aisle, at another table for two, two young women were sitting beside the fish tank. The chairs at the tables were organised so that one person had their back to the aisle, and so consequently the other table, and the other person faced their date (or partner in crime, whichever it might be) as well as the aisle and the reflecting table. A strange side effect of this poorly-thought out seating arrangement was that Draco, who had taken the aisle-facing seat, was not only looking at Ron, but also directly at the brunette teen across the room who had taken the other table's aisle-facing seat.

This wouldn't have been a problem except that the girl was _staring_ at him.

He first noticed when he'd set all the lists, calculations, and measurements onto the table and gone to put his briefcase on the floor. As he flipped the black case shut he happened to chance her appraising, almost brazen glance. He nodded curtly and put the briefcase under his chair. When he straightened again she was still staring. He tried to return the unwavering stare but she just smirked and kept on keeping on. He forced himself to look away and turn to Ron.

"That girl across the room is _staring at me_." He whispered. Ron rolled his eyes.

"She's a muggle, how could she possibly recognise you?"

"I don't think she _has_. I think she's just _staring_."

Ron started to turn towards the girl. Draco threw out a hand to stop him. "NO! She'll know I've noticed!"

Ron looked dubious but stopped.

"She looks very familiar," he thought aloud. "I'm sure if I could see her friend's face I'd know them…" Ron started going over the sheets as Draco rambled on to himself. "Quite pretty, too… wearing too much make-up, though."

* * *

"Take off your hat, 'Mione. This is a nice restaurant." Jeanie jabbed Hermione's elbow with the blunt end of her fork. The witch snapped to attention.

"What?"

Jeanie giggled. "I said take off your hat before one of the waiters asks you to. This is a fancy restaurant."

Hermione doubted that anyone would call Mancini's, a little Italian restaurant off of Charing Cross Road where Ron and she had gone on dates while they were still together, fancy, but she didn't feel like arguing over word-choice with her vocabulary-impaired little sister. After Jeanie had bought her a big, head-hugging hat that strongly reminded her of the turban-like wraps worn by high-class women in films from the forties and she had put it on to cover as much of her hair as possible, Hermione thought the only way of properly thanking the teen-aged muggle for not asking too many questions on the way out of the salon was to take her out to dinner.

She grudgingly unsnapped the hat's front button, then glared at the strands of golden hair that fell into her eyes. "I hate this," she stated honestly, but Jeanie wasn't listening. She'd become terribly interested in something over Hermione's shoulder. "What are you looking at?"

"There's a blonde man over there who's staring at me…" Jeanie giggled and continued staring.

Hermione started to turn to see the staring stranger, but Jeanie threw out a hand to stop her. "NO! He'll know I told you!"

"Who's he with?" Hermione asked. Any subject, even strange men sitting across the restaurant, was better than discussing her hair.

"Um…" Jeanie frowned and craned her neck. "I can't see… he's got red hair."

Hermione smiled at that because meetings between redheads and blondes made her think of what a meeting between Ron and Draco would be like, and how ludicrously comical its end would inevitably be.

"They're on a business meeting, maybe. They've got a lot of paper with them," Jeanie concluded, as though business was the only thing one could ever do with paper.

Hermione nodded vaguely. The waiter had just arrived to take their orders. "Erm… I'll have the _Gnocchi Gorgonzola_. What do you want, Jeanie?"

Jeanie considered the menu. "Um… What has no carbs, no sugar, and is fat free?"

Hermione cleared her throat loudly. "She'll have the angel hair pasta with marinara sauce."

"Ew… I don't want to eat _hair!_" Jeanie hissed once the waiter had gone. "That's gross!"

"You should have asked for food that _existed_, then." Hermione frowned. "You need to gain some weight, anyway."

Jeanie fumed. "Who are you, my mother?"

Hermione could see a fit approaching somewhere on the horizon of Jeanie's immediate future. She latched on to the last subject that had worked well. "Um… is that man still staring at you?"

Jeanie jumped. "Oh, I'd forgotten!" She leaned over to look around her sister. "No…" She deflated. "They're still working though. He's got such strange hair… even more blonde than yours."

"You should see Draco's hair," Hermione stated simply and took a sip from her water. "I think I'll go to the bathroom."

* * *

Ron was trying to use words to figure out how they were going to fit Kissy and her ego into a small, coffin-like space _with_ her consent when Draco started talking about the staring girls again.

"Now the blonde has gone somewhere… the bathroom probably. I'm sure if I could just see her face…"

"You know this is fascinating to me, right?"

Draco glared at Ron. "If you truly must know, I've decided that the brunette looks a bit like a younger Hermione…"

"…Mixed with a young Maria Montez," Ron finished under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Oh, nothing." Ron started shuffling the papers again. "When Hermione and I were… engaged, and her sister was staying with us for a little while, she was about… fourteen or so at the time, whenever someone said she looked like a young Hermione, Hermione would say 'mixed with a young Maria Montez.'"

"A young _who_?"

"I don't know. Some muggle star, I always thought. It was just some kind of running joke with them."

Draco nodded as if her understood. "Well, her companion has left, anyway. What were you saying?"

"Oh, I was only trying to salvage all the rational bits of your plan. That's all."

"There's no need to be snappish, Weasel. It's not my fault the poor girl's _infatuated_ with me."

"Is she staring at you _now_?"

Draco leaned out slightly to get a better view of the girl. "She is."

Ron laughed darkly. "Wave, then."

Draco glared at him, then turned back to the girl. "Oh, she's called over a waiter."

* * *

"Excuse me." Jeanie tried to smile as coyly as possible at the (very cute) waiter whose belt she had just grabbed. "Could I ask you a favor?"

He looked confused, but nodded anyway. "I'll try."

"Could you give a drink over to—" She pointed to the blonde man's table. "—that man over there. Something cheap," she added. "Tell him 'Courtesy of Jeanie Granger.' Can you do that?"

The waiter nodded. "Of course, miss. It might be a minute, but I'm sure I can."

Jeanie smiled and let go of his belt.

She twiddled her thumbs and fidgeted for a few long moments before Hermione returned, looking rather in a hurry, and resumed her seat at the table. "You know what, Jeanie, I'm really sorry, but I've just realized that I haven't done any work for the store in three days or more and we've got a show coming up… would you mind terribly if we just paid and then I dropped you off at Ginny's?"

Jeanie grunted. "I can find my own way back to Ginny's from the store, I think."

"I'd rather drop you off, in all honesty. A mug— er… non-magical person is Diagon Alley after dark is apt to encounter all sorts of trouble."

Jeanie shrugged absently. Hermione could tell she didn't like the idea of leaving the blonde man. "There will be all sorts of other blonde men at the wedding," she promised. "Let's go?"

* * *

"_They're leaving!_" Draco gasped, effectively interrupting Ron's new course of productivity, which was on how to make one blue light morph into twenty rainbow-lights without manual operation. It was just as well, Ron was no good at charms like that.

"Did you catch a look at the blonde's face?"  
"No!" Draco slammed his fist onto the table, or he would have had a crafty waiter not place a tall cosmopolitan in the direct path of his angry hand. He looked up at the offending server. "I didn't order this."

"I know, sir. It's from the girl at that—" He pointed at the now empty table where the girls had been sitting. "Well… now they're gone. But the brunette sends it with her regards, I'm sure." He walked away.

"Well, what does it say?" Ron asked, indicating the small piece of pink paper stuck onto the straw of the drink.

"Courtesy of Jeanie Granger…" he read aloud.

"Jeanie Granger?" they both echoed.

"Like…"

"Hermione's little sister?"

"I guess so. How many Jeanie Grangers who kind of look like a younger Hermione could there be in London?"

"Only one that I know of."

"Me too." Draco considered the note. "Who was the blonde, then?"

* * *

When Hermione returned to the Burrow, over twelve-hours after she'd left it, clutching a carry-out box filled with Gnocchi Gorgonzola and wearing a hat that made her look like a last-stage leukemia patient, Ron was already sitting at the kitchen table, furiously scribbling calculations that Hermione assumed were about the Canons.

"Hallo!" he called as she swung off her overcoat and dropped it on one of the coat-pegs by the door.

"Hi, Ron. How was your day?"

He put down his quill and dropped the computations into a nearby folder. "Really dull, actually."

"Lucky you." She yawned and kicked off her shoes. "You would never believe the day I had."

He smiled and took a sip from a nearby butterbeer bottle. "Try me."

She laughed and removed her hat. All her shiny, soft blonde hair fell down to her shoulders in salon-clean waves.

"You were the blonde!" he shouted before he could stop himself.

Hermione cocked her head at him. "Huh?"

"I mean… um… You're blonde! Wow! That's quite a change."

She gagged. "I _hate_ it. It's all Narcissa Malfoy's doing, anyway."

"You don't say."

"I do. But right now, I'm going to take this dinner—" She indicated the box of gnocchi. "—upstairs. I need to do some serious work for the next S.P.E.W. show and I just haven't had time. If anyone comes by looking for me, could you tell them I've died?"

He nodded. "I could do that."

She started up the stairs.

"Oh, wait!" he called. She stopped and turned back around on the third step.

"Hm?"

"Er… I'd asked Mary-Sue to go to the game with me tomorrow, the Canon's are playing Harry's team, you know, but he's just come by to say she's feeling ill so…"

"Harry was just here?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Really?"

"What do you want me to say, no?"

"Fine fine, all right. Were you going to ask me to go in her stead?"

He smiled at her bluntness. "Yeah."

"I'd love to." She took the boxed dinner and trudged upstairs.

When he'd heard the door to Ginny's room slam shut he counted to ten and turned to the fireplace behind him. Draco Malfoy's disembodied head was floating in the flames. It yawned. "She must be really out of it; she didn't even notice me. So she was the blonde?"

"Apparently."

"I should have known. What were we doing?"

"Um… getting everyone over to your rink tomorrow."  
"Right, that."

"I still can't believe you have a rink."

"When are you going to learn, Weasel? I have _everything_."

* * *

A/N: **_I UPDATED! _**Ugh... three months is much much too long. Honestly. My little brother has taken up this new game called World of Warcraft, which he plays religiously, and of course the computer he uses is the computer I like to write on. It's no good, no good at all. So today I kicked him off and wrote until I was done, and there you are.

I've also started a new project, which is a comic called Life, Death, and Limbo. I don't feel bad plugging it here because I'm VERY proud of it. The link is in my profile. The comic is a study into my favorite character, Tom Riddle, and also into one of my favorite issues, Nature vs. Nurture. The general idea is whether or not Tom Riddle was born evil, but it's also got some nice Harry/Everyone (I'm exploring a lot of Harry ships in the fic as I don't actually have a personal preference for him.) and serious Ron/Hermione. There's a cast of very intriguing, well-thought out, deep characters (not many of them have shown up yet as there are only two parts so far, but whatever), and the ever impending chance of Voldemort being reincarnated (the comic is set post-finalbattle). ANYWAY! I like it a lot, and I'm sure you would too, so please, please, please, please, PLEASE check it out, and rec it to all your friends. I would love you ETERNALLY.

Of course, I will also love you eternally when you straight up review this chapter, but I think I can trust all of you to do that without being told.


	35. Interlude: A Hermione Story: Part II

"**Just a perfect day,  
Problems all left alone,  
Weekenders on our own.  
It's such fun.  
Just a perfect day,  
You made me forget myself.  
I thought I was someone else,  
Someone good."- _Perfect Day_, Lou Reed**

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

_Interlude: A Hermione Story: Part II_

**In which Hermione is still engaged to Ron but Draco doesn't seem to mind much…**

**_August 1, 2001_**

The lights on the ground, seen from such great height, seemed nothing more than a reflection of the sky on a large, still body of water. The only difference was that the stars didn't spin around each other, rising and falling as small, pinwheel shaped rainbows. The stars didn't rotate at such great speeds that their lights created white trails on the sky.

"_It's beautiful_…" she breathed, forgetting for the moment how cold it was sitting there on top of the world. _He's down there… somewhere._

Hermione urged her broom downwards, towards the lights. Her cloak whipped around her in the wind that made the broom shiver. She held it tighter and steadied out. The lights started to separate, moving apart and then joining into distinct groups. Shapes loomed out of the surrounding darkness. A ferris wheel. A concession stand.

She landed in a field behind the carnival, stepping lightly on the soft earth. She quietly dropped her cloak beside her broom and promised to come back for them.

It was a nice night, oddly warm for that part of the year in that part of the country. From her dark field the lights looked even more amazing, a glowing pantheon of electric money-waste standing out against the dark sky, which was partially blotted out by the fair's buzzing ambience. She headed toward it like a bug to a zapper.

At the front entrance she paid the gate-man eight pounds and tried not to stare at the hairy mole on his upper lip.

The carnival smelled like sugar, butter, and motor-oil. It was an odd, potent, and not entirely displeasing mix.

She scanned the crowds, trying to blend in but wishing at the same time that she could stand on one of the slick concession counters and search every face for his. That wouldn't be practical, though, and it _wouldn't_ make her job any easier, no matter how tempting it was.

A young boy by the bumper cars inhaled sugar from a thin paper tube. Two teenagers, a boy and a girl not much younger than Hermione, shared a pretzel and waited in line for the Ferris wheel, the boy surreptitiously wrapping his arm around the girl's waist. A father and his two daughters threw darts at a too-small target in pursuit of the biggest, most ugly, plush poodle Hermione had ever seen.

Then, there he was, Draco Malfoy utterly failing at a game that seemed to involve bb guns and a lot of multi-colored plastic cups.

She grinned and sneaked up behind him, throwing her arms over his eyes just as he took his last shot.

He swore, but played along, anyway. Just like they'd talked about.

He grabbed her wrists, perhaps a bit too roughly, and turned around to face her. "Heather!" He beamed and kissed her chastely on both cheeks. "_You're late_."

"Maybe you're early, Dave," she teased. Just like they'd talked about.

Dave and Heather. Heather and Dave. The perfect muggle couple on the perfect muggle date at the perfect muggle carnival. It was the perfect cover.

"Come on," he said. "There's a car I want to hit you with."

She laughed in spite of herself, or maybe it was Heather who laughed and Dave who had made the joke. The glare of electricity on not-quite-clean metal was confusing things, maybe.

She took his hand and wondered how it could be so cold in the balmy summer night.

"Funny thing about muggles," he said when they were standing in line. "Their weapons are much more blunt, but their capacity for amusement-inducing pain is just as, if not more, great."

She paid the mustached woman running the bumper cars and stepped out onto the metal rink, taking the car closest to the wall, a purple one with a troubling dent in the front and not-nearly-enough seat belt for her taste.

He took the one directly behind her.

She swore under her breath.

"Don't worry, Heather," he called as an electric current surged through the cars. "I won't _kill_ you."

She barely heard the last bit, though, because her foot was already on the gas and she'd sped across the rink, teens and children and old men with sunburn on their forehead giggling and shrieking around her as she tried to pull into a U-turn and smashed inevitably into the wall. She turned to see where he was and noticed that, not only was he _not _directly behind her, he'd found himself in almost the same predicament she had. She reversed and pushed towards him. "Having trouble, Dave?"

He glared.

"Pull the lever on your right."

He did, and instantly catapulted backwards and into her. She screamed as her violet-colored accident-waiting-to-happen skidded across the floor and into the opposite wall.

She glared.

He screamed as he couldn't figure out how to stop.

She laughed.

It was a war, and it was _fun_.

When they were done she bought him ice cream with chocolate and nuts on top and they sat on a bench and watched the Ferris wheel spinning. It was always odd, meeting like that, but it was the only way to go about it. He wasn't really a spy. He wasn't really _anything_; but the things he'd told her, the bits of information he'd given her in cafes, hidden in pastries, speaking in code at five-star restaurants, written on napkins and slipped into purses at the beach, were more valuable than time she could have spent at home with Ron, anyway. It was all worth it if it could end the war a little bit faster.

It was also possible that she liked spending time with him… but that might have been a stretch.

"When are you getting married?"

She looked up, chocolate ice cream still on her mouth. "As soon as possible." She swallowed. "When the war…when this is all over with."

"Oh?"

"We're hoping by October."

"Oh. So soon? You really think wonder boy can pull it off by then?"

"We can hope."

They didn't talk for a while, and then he played his bb gun game again until finally he gave up and slipped the man behind the counter a ten in a handshake so he would give him one of the hideous green monster-dolls hung from the ceiling. It's cock-eyed, red stare was the most heinous thing she'd ever seen.

"I think I'll name it Peaches," he declared proudly once the little monstrosity was safe under his arm. She was the only person close enough to notice him sliding a tiny roll of paper into the small, stitch-wanting rip beneath Peaches's fuzzy, green arm. "On the other hand…" He handed it to her with a sly grin. "She won't nearly match my sheets. Perhaps you can do better?"

She clutched it to her heart with a happy sigh. "I'm sure I can. Let's ride the Ferris wheel?"

It wasn't quite real; but it was enough.

* * *

A/N: Just another interlude. Next one will be similar to this as well. Next chapter coming A.S.A.P. 


End file.
